The Book of Judith
by Praxid
Summary: Judith Grimes and Daryl Dixon are the final survivors to remain from the group, struggling to make a life for themselves in the later years of the outbreak. This is a loose collection of short stories set in the decade after the show takes place, as Judy slowly grows up under his care.
1. She Was Used to Travel

_This began as a one-shot, but has since decided it wants to tell a larger story. So this is now the first chapter of a longer work, called The Book of Judith. Enjoy!_

_Please check out my tumblr, under the user name "Praxid," for sketches, essays, and general musings about The Walking Dead._

* * *

_She Was Used to Travel:_

She was used to travel. It was how they lived.

So Judith was used to the minor inconveniences and delays that came with any long journey.

The two of them were on their bike, moving fast over the highway. At the swell of a hill, Daryl had to brake hard. There was something in the way.

Fallen trees—two big ones, down over the whole road. That was bad. But what was worse, there were _people _there. A big group—stopped on the other side of those fallen trunks. They'd been coming in from the other direction.

She and Daryl didn't see those people until they'd already rode up. The strangers had parked their trucks along the roadside, and were trying to figure out how to move those trees out of their way.

When Daryl first parked their bike, Judith was a little scared of those strangers. Her hand went to her holster, by long habit. She kept it there while Daryl stepped ahead of her. Announced their presence to the others. Talked to their leader, a bit, between the tree branches.

And then he turned, and nodded to her. It was safe.

So her curiosity started to overpower her fear, then. Judith rushed up to Daryl's side—wanted to look around. She could already tell that the strangers' group was pretty big—and she could hear children's voices.

She peered over the branches in the road, straining to see where the kids were. Wanted to know how _many_ kids there were. How old they might be. She hadn't played with anyone her own age in weeks and weeks.

Finally, Daryl told her to climb over the trunks. He was going to the other side to help move them out of the way. And he wanted her to follow him, so he could keep his eye on her.

She waited where Daryl told her to wait, while he helped the others work on the trees. Sat along the curbside. Played with the fringed ends of her scarf, a moment.

One of their friends knitted it for her—long ago when there was more than just the two of them left alive. She was almost too young to remember that friend. But she'd been beautiful, and kind.

Judith burrowed into her jacket. It was late fall, and the air was getting cold again. Over the next few weeks, she'd start seeing frost on their bike when they got up in the mornings.

Judith watched Daryl looking those fallen trees over. The strangers were with him, talking about what they were going to do to clear the road.

She decided to take this quiet moment to check out the works on her weapon. Daryl always taught her to be prepared. Her gun belonged to her brother, once. Before he died. She remembered him a little better than most of the others.

He'd been tall, by the end. And kind.

She counted out her bullets, one by one. Sat them upright on the asphalt, in a row. Only ten left. She'd need to ask Daryl to stop and get more. Needed to the first moment they found somewhere they could scavenge.

It was getting harder and harder to find things like that. Sometimes she worried about what would happen when all the old storefronts were completely empty.

She touched one of those bullets, upright on the asphalt. Then another. Started to play with them. Pretended they were people. Dolls.

Judith had a doll, once, but she'd long since left it behind in some safehouse. When the walkers were surrounding the place, and they had to run—fast. She could remember its yellow dress.

And a shadow fell over her in the late afternoon light. Judith looked up. It was one of the little boys. He looked to be about ten years old—just like her.

"Hi," he said.

She'd _hoped_ there was someone to play with in that group of strangers. But now that he was standing in _front_ of her, she felt uncertain. She looked up at the boy warily, a moment. Didn't know what to say.

But Daryl wouldn't have stopped the bike—wouldn't be helping the strangers move those trees if he didn't think it was safe.

"Hi," she said.

And he sat down next to her. Looked at her bullets, laid out in a row. In the distance, the adults were talking about those fallen trees. Someone started one of the engines—one of the big trucks the boy's people were using. You needed big vehicles like that, now, to drive anywhere. To get over the potholes. Or you needed something small, like their motorcycle, so you could go around them.

She could hear Daryl talking to that group. He started hacking at one of the branches with the machete he carried on his belt. Clearing the log so it'd be easier to push at it with the trucks.

The boy was rifling through his bag while she watched Daryl. And he pulled out his own supply of bullets. Laid them in a row along the pavement beside hers. He had more than she did. Seventeen.

They were the same caliber as Judith's. .22s. That boy and her—they were both still pretty little, and they couldn't handle much more power than that.

"What kinda gun you got?" he asked.

She took it out of her holster, again, and showed it to him. He looked it over.

"That was my brother's," she said, "And before that, I was using my mama's gun. Cause it was really, really little. No kickback."

"Yeah," the boy said, "My dad says I can start using his Bushmaster when we find somewhere safe for a while. He'll take me huntin' and we'll get in some target practice."

Judith holstered her gun. Thought of the small arsenal stored on their bike. Most of it, Daryl wouldn't let her use, yet.

"I _really_ wanna use the .357 magnum we got," she said, "It's a Python. But I'm not big enough."

The boy just nodded. And he pushed one of his bullets over on its side. Started doing that with every other bullet—made a pattern. So Judith took hers, and laid them end to end in a circle nearby. While she did it, she asked him a question. Didn't look up.

"You see any walkers around?"

"Nah," he said, "Not for a week or so. There was one in the street where we was drivin', but its legs didn't work right no more and it couldn't come for us."

She nodded. It was no surprise. But the boy's people were coming from the way she and Daryl were _going_. She wanted to know if there was anything they should be ready for.

They drifted into silence. Played with the bullets. Finally, he spoke up again.

"You never said what kinda gun you got. What is it?"

Judith was confused. She already showed it to him. The make was engraved on the side of the handle. So she pulled it—showed it to him, again. Pointed at the lettering.

"It's a Winchester. See? Says it right there."

He paused.

"… you know how to read?"

She looked at him, surprised.

"… don't you?"

His face was blank. No. He didn't.

It was Daryl who taught her to read. They'd sit with a flashlight in their tent, before bed, and he'd go over books with her. And sometimes he'd let her stop at some old library, and they'd root through what was left there. He'd let her take whatever she wanted, and then they'd read it, together.

One day, she found her own name in one of those dusty, old books. That book said her name belonged to a warrior. One from the Bible.

When she asked Daryl what a Bible was, he told her it was a book of stories—stories people used to believe were true.

And she wished that _one_ story was true, at least. It said that Judith defended her whole nation by killing an evil king. Cut his head _clean_ _off_.

And _this_ Judith liked that story. She liked it a lot.

She'd already saved Daryl's life twice. The most recent time, it was such a close call it gave her nightmares for a while afterwards.

It wasn't walkers, that time—those were getting rarer and weaker by the year. It was _people_. Two men—armed to the teeth. They'd almost shot him while he defended their supplies. And Daryl _never_ gave up. He was prepared to fight to the death for what was theirs.

She was, too.

And Judith was still very little. Light on her feet. Daryl had long since taught her to move silently in the woods. So she snuck up behind those two men—quietly—and shot them each in the back of the skull.

She'd asked Daryl for a higher caliber weapon, after that. Wanted something more powerful. Wanted that Python, really. But Daryl said no. Said she wasn't big enough, yet.

She was waiting and waiting to get big enough.

It seemed like it would take forever to grow up.

There was a shift in the noise on the road. In the conversation the adults were having. They'd gotten part of the path clear, now. Enough to get the trucks through. And she and the boy both knew they wouldn't just hang around once they could move on.

It was time to go.

She looked at the boy. At his green eyes and freckled face. She wouldn't see him again. Maybe he'd die, looking for that safe place he told her about. The one where his dad hoped to take him hunting.

And the boy started gathering his bullets. Putting them back in his bag. Then he paused. Reached out, and pressed four of them into her hand.

"Here."

She stiffened. She'd been taught to make her own way, and she wasn't used to strangers touching her.

"C'mon," he said, "Take 'em. I got more than you."

He pulled away. Tucked his hands into his coat pockets. The air misted with his breath.

"Thanks," she said. Packed up her own stuff. Loaded her weapon with his bullets, and holstered it.

And in that moment, Daryl snapped his fingers in their direction. She sensed it, and looked up. His brown hair was shot through with grey, now. His scraggly beard was much the same.

"Hey," the boy said, "Your dad wants you."

She looked at the boy, blankly.

"That's not my dad."

She didn't really understand why he'd even _say_ something like that. It was _obvious_ who that was. Daryl had always been there. Had existed forever. It seemed like everyone should know him as a universal fact of life.

And Daryl caught her eyes. Called out to her.

"Yo, Judy! We're burnin' daylight!"

And Judith ran to him. Climbed behind him on their bike, and they rode away.


	2. Death Rattle

_As you can see, I've been inspired to continue this story. I've retitled "She Was Used to Travel," "The Book of Judith"-in reference to the biblical apocrypha. This will be a collection of loosely connected stories describing Daryl and Judy's life on the road, together._

_Do please check out my tumblr-under the name Praxid. It's full of my drawings, thoughts and essays about TWD, and other nerdy fun. _

_Oh, and before anyone asks about it, I know the quotation from Moby Dick isn't correct—the idea is that this is a children's paraphrase, with simpler language. _

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

_Death Rattle:_

Even now—when Daryl's hair was greying, and his old life was a distant memory—when he'd traveled long and far. When everyone he'd ever known was dead. Even _now_, some things hadn't changed.

One of those things was that he knew next to nothing about girls.

So Daryl tried to pretend that Judith was a boy, as much as he could. It wasn't hard to do. After all, she'd only just turned eleven. _Looked_ like a boy, except for her long hair. And she acted like one, too. Liked to wrestle with him and throw the ball. She'd wander the woods tirelessly—rushing along at his side, struggling to keep up on her little legs.

She'd climb through thickets and over rocks and slide down embankments. And as she did it, she'd get coated with dirt and sweat and mud—grubby enough that even _he_ insisted she had to clean up. She didn't always remind him of a boy, then. When she was bounding around in the woods like that, she reminded him of a puppy.

Even so, Judy didn't always act that way. She could be careful, and she could be quiet. He taught her to move silently over the ground, and she could do it when she wanted to. Loved to hunt. Was getting to be a damned fine shot. And it pleased him.

Knowing it eased some of the constant worry he lived with every day.

He'd already taught her to make arrows for his crossbow. So she'd sit by the fire, at night, and work on them—planing down the bolts with those deft little fingers. And she loved to make them for him—wanted to help. He could tell.

And as she did it, he'd tell her stories.

A lot of the time, they were stories about her daddy. Not Shane. He didn't tell her much of anything about him. But Rick. _Rick_ was her daddy, as far as Daryl was concerned.

That night, as they sat by the campfire, she just finished the arrows she'd been working on. Put them down neatly—side by side—and let the guide-feathers dry on the shafts.

She ran a finger across those feathers, lightly. Counted the bolts, laid out in a row. He listened to the fire, and the sounds of the night forest all around them.

"… Daryl?"

He didn't look up. Stoked the campfire. Pushed at it with a stick. The embers kicked up and floated above them, into the night sky.

"Yeah?"

"Tell me about the time my daddy brought you to the CDC."

He smiled to himself, a little.

"Again?"

"… yeah."

So he leaned back a bit, and started the story.

"Well, when we got there, we had to fight right away 'cause the walkers were all over the front of the building. And there was no way inside—it was all bolted down real tight. And your daddy—he was _sure_ someone was in there, watchin'. That someone would open the door for us. And them geeks were getting closer and closer and we _knew_ we couldn't fight 'em all off."

"But Daddy didn't give up."

"That's right. Now the thing was, it was gettin' real dark, and we were in the city, and—"

"And you had that axe, right? Cut one of their heads _right off_ with it?"

He nudged her with his elbow.

"Who's tellin' this story, Jude?"

She shrugged, and smiled a little. He didn't turn to look at her, but he knew.

"Sorry," she said. And he took up the story, again.

"So your daddy—he swore up and down he'd seen somethin' movin'. And not one of us believed him. And then it was gettin' real bad. Just a matter of minutes with 'em all closin' in on us…"

Daryl went on to describe everything that happened—as best he could remember, anyway. And Judith got quiet, and listened. He could see her out of the corner of his eye. Right up against his side, staring into the fire. The warm light floated over her fresh face. Brought out the highlights in her long, dark hair.

He lost track of the story, over time. Started telling her more about her daddy. About the wristwatch he always wore. About how he didn't seem to care that it was broken, and couldn't tell the time. Eventually, Judy leaned her head on Daryl's shoulder. Nestled in against him, listening to everything he said. Brushed his arm with her hair.

That hair. He really should cut it short—for safety. But he thought Lori would like it this way. Would want to see Judy with her hair like that.

When he finally looked down at her, she was asleep. The light of the fire played over her closed eyes. The dark lashes.

So he picked her up as gently as he could. Tried not to wake her. Carried her into their tent, and laid her down on her bedroll.

He pulled the blankets over her, and let her sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Judith drifted awake slowly, listening to the sound of the falling rain.

The light filtered through the tent's nylon canvas, and she could see the raindrops gathering in the creases. Running down the sides. She was comfortable under her blankets. Nestled into them, a moment—warm despite the cool, morning air, and the shower pouring down outside.

And she turned her head. Saw that Daryl's bedroll was gone. He got up before her, and packed up his stuff. And in that moment, she heard something outside. Daryl's footsteps. She knew the sound of them. He was out in the rain, gathering their things. Clearly meant for them to move on today.

She didn't question it. After all, she was used to travel. It was how they lived.

She sat up. Slipped out from under the covers and started packing what was left in the tent. Moved fast—she was so used to the process that she could do it without thinking.

And she holstered her .22, like she did every morning, and climbed outside—into the pouring rain. It was cool on her skin, and the wilderness around her smelled beautiful and fresh and clean. She collapsed the tent while Daryl lashed the rest of their things to the bike—the stuff that wouldn't fit in the saddle bags.

And then it was time to go. She ran up to him. Meant to take her place—to climb up behind him on their bike, like she always did.

He turned the engine. And it sputtered a moment—then the sound went dead.

He tried again.

Nothing.

"Daryl…?"

She looked at him. He was very still. One of his arms was resting on the handlebars. And he turned the key in the ignition, again. That choked rattle was shorter, now. The thing wouldn't turn over.

She took another step towards the bike, and froze in place. Felt something cold welling out from her gut.

"…_Daryl_?"

* * *

Daryl crouched in the mud, leaning in close to the bike—trying his best to look over the engine despite the driving rain. He had a spoke wrench in his hand.

The bike was a lost cause. He knew it.

But Judy's _face,_ when she realized the engine wouldn't start. He couldn't bear to give up just yet, with the way she'd been looking at him.

So he decided to look over the problem. See if he could jury-rig something—_anything_—to keep it going even a little bit longer. And while he did it, she watched. Sat out on a tree root, holding his leather jacket over her head to block out the pouring rain.

The bike had been making a strange noise for about a week. A strangled, thin rattle that got louder in the low gears—a choked-off, sputtering sound that broke right through the purr of the engine.

That sound said nothing good to Daryl. Deep down, he'd known exactly what it meant the moment he first heard it.

But he hadn't wanted to say anything about it to Judy. Not until he was sure.

And this morning—kneeling in the dirt with the rain soaking his clothes—he realized he'd waited too long. The thing wouldn't turn over at all. Wouldn't ever again. And there was no way to get the parts he'd need to rebuild an engine.

The bike was lost.

So finally, he put his tools back in their box, and turned to where Judith sat, under that tree with his jacket draped over her hair. The rain rolled off the leather in thick sheets.

"Judy," he said, "The bike. It's..."

He trailed off. She looked down, a moment. Bit her lip. And he thought she was going to cry, then. But she didn't. Just looked down at the roots, and the grass around them.

"I know."

He could see her pushing her feelings down. The motion of it was clear on her face. The stricken look faded away in a moment, and she was calm.

She came up to the bike, then, and started unbuckling the saddle bags.

"What should we try and carry with us?"

"Just what we gotta—need to stay light on our feet, kid."

She nodded from under his jacket, draped over her head like a hood. And she went to the other side of the bike. Started rooting in the bag, there.

"I want the book. We ain't done with it yet."

She meant the one they'd been reading together, some nights. It was a comic book based on Moby Dick—one meant for kids, with simplified language. There were vivid, full-color illustrations. And as they read through the thing, he'd been trying to explain the story as best he could—tried to describe how whaling worked and what the boats were like and what it might have been like to live back then.

He _tried_. But really, he didn't know much about any of it _himself_. It was pretty hazy to him, too. Unlike anything he'd really ever known.

So to Daryl and Judy, the story was as strange and fantastic as something out of Narnia. That white whale may as well have been a dragon.

She found the book in the saddlebag, and he took it from her, stashing it in his rucksack as fast as he could—so it wouldn't get wet.

After that, he started gathering the bare necessities—the mess kit, and a change of clothes for them both. Some rope, and the toolbox. Their small first aid kit, and the whetstone.

He reached in deeper. Rummaged around. Pulled out Judy's baseball.

"Think fast," he said, and tossed it to her.

She caught it, deftly, and slipped it into her backpack. And then she turned back to the saddlebags. Paused there, and pulled something out. The Python. And Daryl knew that they didn't have any bullets for a .357 anymore.

She held it out for him to take. He looked at her a moment, and took the gun. Put it in his bag without a word.

The other weapons followed—the ammunition. Their collection of knives. The supplies for the crossbow.

And then, he found her knit scarf—rolled it up to keep in his bag. It was too warm for her to wear it now, but they both knew it would get cold again soon enough.

Besides, he knew who made it. Remembered her doing it, way back when. Leaning over it in one of their safehouses, by a window, maybe-to get the best light. He remembered it, and he wanted to keep remembering it.

And that was it. Daryl made to step away. And she didn't follow.

"C'mon, kid. It's time to go," he said.

"Wait."

She leaned back over the bike—kept hunting through the saddlebags. One by one, she pulled out a few of her old socks. Felt around in the toes, as if she was hunting for something. And she shook something out from one of them. A balled-up, ziplock bag.

He walked up to her in time to see her shake something out of it. Something he didn't know she had—thought had been lost years and years and years ago.

Lori's necklace.

He leaned over her, stunned. He hadn't seen the thing in over a decade.

"Where'd you _get that?"_

"It was my mama's"

"… I know."

She unhooked the golden chain. Twined it around the belt loop of her jeans a few times. Worked the latch, and buried the locket deep in her watch pocket.

"My brother had it. Took it from her when she went, he said. And he gave it to me. You know… right before."

And Daryl knew what she meant. Her brother gave it to her right before _he_ died. And the two of them almost never talked about that—or any of the others, really. Carl had been the last to go—and Daryl strongly suspected that his death was the only one Judy really remembered.

That chain was barely visible, hanging on her belt loop. And he wasn't sure why she didn't wear it on her neck—or why she'd never told him that she had it.

Really, he was dumbfounded that she'd been able to keep something from him all these years.

"Ok," she said, "I'm ready."

And they started towards the main road. Walked along in the heavy rain. And he tried to comfort her—to feel out how she was going to react to losing the bike.

"You know, that bike was my big brother's, to start with. I ever tell you that?"

"No," she said, shifting her pack on her shoulder. And she looked to him.

"Your brother, Daryl... was he like my brother?"

"… not really."

As they got to a sloping hill, Judith paused. And he sensed her tensing up at his side. And he knew she was about to turn around. Wanted to look at the bike, one last time.

So he reached out, and touched her shoulder.

"Don't turn back, Judy."

Daryl looked down into her face.

"Don't turn back."

* * *

A week later, the two of them were headed down an old, country road. They were moving on foot—over the tangled weeds and debris and torn up asphalt. There were some farm houses off in the distance, on the rolling hills. Some of them were half-collapsed. Storms and heat and cold and wet had all taken their toll.

And the two of them were cautious—they were _always_ cautious. Daryl kept an eye out for any sign—any indication on the ground that _anything_ had been moving nearby. Sometimes, if he saw animal tracks, he'd stop and quiz Judy about what kind they were. What direction the animals had taken. How many there were. How fast they'd been moving.

And that was all they saw—tracks from passing animals. The two of them hadn't run across a walker for a couple weeks, and hadn't seen a living person for over a month. They were out deep—way off in the remote countryside. He tried to see that they spent as much time out there as they could—away from people.

Thought Judy would be safer, that way.

And now, especially, they needed to stay safe. He knew there was no way they could get an abandoned car working again. Not after so much time had gone by. So he and Judy couldn't move any faster than their legs could carry them.

They were exposed. Vulnerable. Daryl knew it—and it made that ever-present worry swell in his gut.

And Judy spoke up. Said something that made him wonder if she knew what he was thinking about.

"We should ride horses. You could teach me how."

She gestured out into the grass beyond the road.

"We seen a lot of 'em in the fields last few days, right? Runnin' in the grass."

He shook his head.

"Those horses are wild, Jude—and they gotta be trained to carry you. You can't just grab one and go like that."

"Well… sometimes people got 'em, right? I mean, other groups. We could find a place, and try and take some trained horses... when no one's lookin'."

That made him grin. He nudged her playfully on the shoulder.

"You wanna steal horses? What is this, _Gunsmoke_?"

And she was just staring at him—her face completely blank. She didn't have the first clue what he was talking about.

He shook his head.

"… nevermind."

They trailed off, then. Went silent a few minutes. Listened to the wind in the grass. There was a kestrel circling overhead—looking for mice in the fields beyond the road.

And Daryl shrugged to himself, and started up again.

"'Sides, we can't go around stealin' horses. Your mama wouldn't like it if we did somethin' like that."

She accepted that reasoning immediately. He said stuff like that to her often enough to know that she would.

And it made him think about that locket. Lori's locket—hidden away in Judy's jeans. He was starting to wonder how, exactly, she understood him when he _said_ things like that—things about what her mama would want.

The first night without the bike, he heard her speaking to Lori's necklace—very quietly. Whispering something to it, softly, like some kind of prayer.

And now, he was starting to get the impression that it _had been_ a prayer. That Judy thought of Lori as someone they could speak to. Someone who watched them—who told them what was right and what was wrong.

It was his own damn fault if Judith thought of her mama that way. He was _always_ telling her what her mama would or wouldn't do. It was the only way he could think to keep them on a straight path. One Lori might have wanted for her kid.

And Judith was _her_ kid.

If he didn't talk about her so much, that would have been easy for him to forget.

* * *

There was something in a ditch by the road. Something that was moving.

Daryl raised his hand, and Judith froze in place.

"Stay back," he said, quietly—under his breath.

As he approached, he saw what it was. A walker. Half rotted away. It only had one arm left, and no legs. Its skull was showing in places, and it had trouble moving its jaw.

It must have gotten itself stuck in the mud during those heavy rains a few days back. It reached out for him with its one hand. Made a strange, rattling gurgle deep in its throat. It strained its fingers towards him, but it couldn't reach. It could barely move.

Judy came up behind him. Watched. He could sense her at his back as he shrugged off his crossbow, and took the thing out.

And she talked to him as he pulled the arrow from its skull. As he went to get his pack, so they could keep on walking the road.

"The crossbow's better than the guns," she said, "It's silent."

He nodded.

"When you get just a little bit older, you can start learning to use it."

"… how _much_ older?"

"Dunno, _exactly_. When you're tall enough. Your arm needs to have the right reach."

"But how long will it take to get tall enough? … I mean, how long does it take to grow up?"

His lip tugged up in one of his small, crooked smiles.

"I'll let you know when I get there, kid."

"And won't you need it? The crossbow?"

"I know where to find you if I do," he said, "And really… that thing'll be yours someday."

She stopped dead in her tracks. Stared at him. He could feel her eyes on him.

When he turned, he saw that she had that look on her face—the same one she had when they left the bike behind.

So he leaned in, and put a hand on her shoulder.

"It _will_."

She shrugged him off, gently. Stepped forward. Didn't look at him as she spoke up, again.

"… tell me about the time you saw the chupacabra."

And he knew she was asking him to drop it. To stop talking about the crossbow altogether. And he couldn't help but do it.

And that _story_. The story of the chupacabra. He'd told it to her over and over again—it was one of her favorites.

Judith was the only person who'd ever believed the chupacabra was real.

Daryl fell into step beside her, again. Behind them, the body on the side of the road faded slowly out of sight.

"Well, I was out pretty deep in the woods, squirrel huntin'—this was way before the walkers. Before I ever met your daddy…"

* * *

That night, they sat together in the tent, before they went to sleep.

Daryl leaned over her with the LED flashlight—the only one he had that still worked right. And they read that colorful book, together. Moby Dick. The children's paraphrase she'd picked up from a shelf in some rotting storefront. Her hands cast shadows on the pages. On the colored illustrations—still vivid and bright despite their age.

They looked at those pictures, together. At the giant, white whale, overpowering everything in its wake. The violent surf hurling itself against the Pequod's shattered prow. The wide sails. The vast sea.

And Daryl could hear the sound of the crickets out in the grass, melding with the rustle of the pages under Judy's little hands. Her voice, as she softly read the words out loud to him.

When they reached the last page, they looked at the drawing of Ishmael , clinging to the coffin to stay afloat—tossed along with the waves.

She whispered the words there, brushing her finger against the paper.

"And I alone survived to tell the tale."


	3. Don't Look

_Hello friends—I'm sorry I haven't been replying to reviews as quickly as I have with other stories. I *will* be getting to it in the next day or two-for the previous chapter as well as this one. I've been having some ongoing health issues that have really taken a bite into my writing time. But, happily enough, I have a chapter ready for you today._

_This chapter has some implied violence and is slightly more intense than what we've seen before. I just want to warn you. But here especially, I feel like we're really starting to get to know our heroes, and how they know each other._

* * *

_Don't Look:_

Judith sat on a log, cleaning her gun. She enjoyed the sunlight—it was warm on her skin, and hair. Hazy through the thick branches of the summer trees.

She loved this kind of weather—loved the lazy sunlight in the languid hours of a summer afternoon. The warm air smelled like earth, and there was wind in the leaves overhead. It sounded a bit like falling rain, to her.

Daryl was out alone—somewhere in the deep woods. Scouting ahead—looking to see what was out there, and where they should go next. He'd probably try to get somewhere high—somewhere on the top of a landrise, or maybe he'd climb a tree. And he'd look down over everything and figure out what their next move might be.

And as for Judith—she waited back at their camp for him. Looked after things there. Had water simmering over a low fire—heating it to make sure it'd be safe to drink when Daryl got back.

It always felt strange for her to be without him. Sitting alone on that log didn't seem _right,_ to Judith. She had just one friend in the entire world, and he only left her when he felt he had to.

Sometimes, when she was younger, she'd cry when he went away. He'd settle her into some hard-to-reach place before he'd go. And she'd hide wherever he told her to hide, and weep silently into her knees.

And she was twelve years old, now. Too old for baby stuff like _that_. But still… she wouldn't feel quite right until she heard him coming back, again. She waited for the sound of it—of his approach. The underbrush would rustle around him and then he'd step out into their camp—and then there'd be the familiar rhythm of his movements. Of his footfalls—the way he held his weight when he moved over the dirt. The faint, gravelly tenor there was to his breath. And he'd catch her eye, and nod to her.

"Hey, Jude," he'd say.

She shook it off. She wasn't going to let herself get nervous. She was going to clean her gun, and heat their water, and keep her head firmly on her shoulders while she waited for him to come back.

And it was then she noticed something. The birdsong. It had gone quiet.

Something was wrong.

She stood up, silently. Muscles tensed and ready. In an instant, all the normal things around her—the tent, the fire. The stands of forest trees. _All_ of it started to look strange to her. Like the forest wasn't real.

There was a sound—headed towards her and getting louder. Not Daryl's footsteps. No, this was the sound of hooves.

A riderless horse tore through the trees at a full gallop. The brass on its bridle caught the sun.

It bolted through the campsite—she jumped to the side as it brushed by her. And she saw what remained of the rider, then—a mangled body, caught in the stirrup by one ankle. Bloodied and bruised and stone dead. His arm hit her leg as the horse dragged him through the dirt.

Then horse and rider both disappeared into the forest.

And she knew there was only one reason she'd _see_ something like that.

She saw the first walker as soon as she turned around. And another. Another. Rushing forward. Freshly dead, and pretty fast on their feet.

She looked down to the log where she'd been sitting—at the rag with the gunparts on it. Her .22 was in pieces, and there was no time. She had to leave it.

Judith didn't stop to see how many there were. Just picked a direction, and bolted into the trees.

* * *

Judith must have been about four years old when her brother died—and it was by far the most frightening experience of her young life.

She didn't remember it clearly, later. It only came back to her in foggy, disjointed fragments.

That only made it worse.

It was dark. They were… somewhere. Somewhere further north than they'd been before. And it was winter. A bad, harsh, bone-chilling winter.

She was in a house. A lone house out on the rural edges of some abandoned town. The tall grass was absolutely _covered_ in snow. Heavy drifts pressed in on the walls—so deep they'd overwhelm her if she tried to walk through them. Those drifts half-covered her brother's pickup truck, and ate Daryl's bike whole.

And the freezing rain was beating down on the roof above her head. It leaked into the house, a bit. She remembered seeing the dribbling water running on the wallpaper. Trailing over the patterns of the flowers in the light of their Coleman lantern.

As the night went on, it got cold, and dark. Those wet trails froze in place.

She was wrapped in blankets, and sitting on the floor of a tired, old, upstairs bedroom. She didn't really notice the musty smell, or the dirt—just about every bedroom she'd ever seen had been like that. They'd holed up in this particular one for a few days, already. Ever since her brother got too sick to move anymore. And she didn't understand what was wrong. Something about a tooth. A wisdom tooth, he and Daryl called it. She didn't know what a wisdom tooth was. What made it wise.

And the two men threw around _other_ words she didn't understand. Impaction. Sepsis. Necrosis.

And in the memory, Daryl wasn't there with her and her brother. He'd gone somewhere else, and left them alone.

At the time, she didn't really understand why. Where'd he'd gone. Now, she realized he had to have been out in the storm, hunting for some way—any way—they could save her brother. Medicine, other people. _Something_. And Daryl couldn't take her with him—not on foot, in the ice and sleet and deep, thick snow.

So he left her there with her brother. She sat and watched him where he lay—splayed out on a mattress. He was lanky—filled up the whole length of his narrow bed.

And later on—no matter how hard she tried—she couldn't really remember his face. What exactly he'd looked like. She remembered he was _tall_, yes—but she wasn't sure about the rest. And she couldn't remember if the infection coursing through his jaw showed on the outside. If it poisoned his blood without a trace, or if it rotted his skin. Ate it away like some corrosive acid.

Because of _that_, she was mostly glad she couldn't remember.

But she _did_ remember that one of his hands was tied to the brass headboard. At the time, she didn't understand why he and Daryl had decided to do something like that.

So she watched him, and thought about it. Could see her breath in the air. Could see her brother's, too, when he managed to breathe.

She just sat there, and listened to him gasp, then go silent. Over and over and over. She couldn't remember how long it had been. Hours, maybe.

And at last, he tried to pull himself upright. Strained on the rope tying him to the headboard, and the headboard creaked and complained against his weight. But he wasn't strong enough to sit up, and he collapsed on the mattress.

"Judy," he whispered. His voice was thin and breathy. Looking back on it later, she understood that talking must have hurt him terribly. He gasped hard, and strained to speak, again:

"Judy, come here and do something for me."

She crawled up onto the mattress, then. He put his free hand on her knee.

"Judy. In my pocket. Check my pocket."

He couldn't reach into the pocket himself. Couldn't find the strength. So she rifled his jeans. Found what he had in mind. Pulled it out. A locket on a gold chain.

"That was Mom's. I took it from her… when she went. Now you take it. Keep it _safe_. Watch it. Don't lose it."

He tried to squeeze her knee, where it lay under his palm. And she leaned in close, then. Pressed her forehead against his arm.

"Judy… I'm not gonna… it's too late. So you need to hide, ok?"

She didn't understand—not at the time. Didn't understand why he was cuffed to the bed. Didn't understand why he wanted her to hide. Didn't know what was about to _happen_. All she knew was that it was really bad. That everyone she'd ever known had been afraid of it—even if they never said so out loud. This nameless, terrible thing that was waiting to happen.

"_Hide_, Judy. You gotta hide. Go in the closet and wait for Daryl. Hide from me and don't look. No matter what you hear, ok? _Don't look_."

He brushed at her knee with his hand. Nudging at her to get off the bed and leave him.

"Go," he said, "_Go_."

She rolled off the mattress, then. Stepped onto the floorboards. They creaked a little under her weight. And later, she could clearly remember the sound of a mouse chewing at something inside one the walls.

As she moved away from her brother, the room seemed to grow larger and larger all around her. The shadows loomed.

And he spoke to her, as she wandered through that ever-expanding, cavernous bedroom. As she stared at the patterned wallpaper. The water stains there. He let out one, last whisper that lingered, a moment, in the freezing air:

"We love you, Judy. We all love you so much."

* * *

Daryl walked through the tall birches, listening to the quiet wind rustling the leaves overhead. Pushed through the undergrowth, and headed back to camp. Back to Judy.

He could hear her fire before he saw it. The crackle of the wood, and the water simmering. And he wondered what else she was doing, over there. Making arrows, or mending clothes. Cleaning her gun, or reading a book. That kid was always doing _something_.

He stepped out into their camp, and looked up.

"Hey, J—"

She was gone.

And the fire was still burning, low, under the pan. The water was simmering away. The sound of it filled his ears.

He spun around. Took in the scene. The tent was collapsed in a tangled pile on the dirt.

_No._

He darted forward. There was a stain on it—on the nylon canvas. A handprint, in blood.

_No, no, no…_

He tried to clear his head—to cut off the panic before it grew. Looked down to the earth below his feet. There were tracks, but he couldn't read them very well. They tangled over each other, and they weren't fresh. There must have been at least a dozen walkers. Maybe more.

"_Judy_…"

But the underbrush. He could see the broken mess of twigs, heading in one direction. They'd chased her into the woods.

He pushed his way into the trees, and ran after their trail.

* * *

Judy bolted through the forest. She could hear her own breath—fast and hard. Everything else seemed strangely quiet. Far away.

And she knew it was bad. She was still pretty little. And she was always a kind of gangly, skinny kid. Daryl said she looked a lot like her mama.

But she was just twelve—hadn't quite grown into her body, yet. So she couldn't run very far, or very fast. Not _yet_. So they might catch up to her. Maybe. She wasn't sure.

And Daryl had always taught her that if the geeks were chasing you, you shouldn't try and count 'em. You shouldn't try to look behind you as you ran. That was a good way to get tripped. A good way to get dead.

So you don't look—you just _go_.

So she did. But she'd been running a good while, now, and she was exhausted. Just _had_ to stop, a minute. Plastered herself against the side of a tree. Leaned into it, trying to catch her breath.

A noise. Right behind. Right there.

They were still coming. Gaining ground.

But she didn't turn. Not yet. She waited.

"Mama," she whispered. Thought of that locket in her jeans. And as she drew her hunting knife from her belt, she remembered her brother's voice. That strangled whisper.

_Don't look._

* * *

All those years ago, Judy sat in that cold, dark bedroom on that awful, snowy night.

In the end, she'd completely ignored what her brother said. Didn't go in the closet. Didn't hide. Just stared at him.

He wasn't gasping anymore.

And she had no idea how long it was. Hours, probably. It was dark, and cold. Before he left, Daryl had gathered all the blankets he could find, and wrapped her up tight. She cuddled into the little nest of them on the floor. Clung to her doll—the doll with the yellow dress. Waited. She knew something was going to happen, but she didn't entirely understand what.

The house creaked and settled. Time passed. Finally, she heard the door slam, below.

Daryl's familiar footfalls. Coming up the stairs. She wished he could just materialize in the room that instant—didn't want to wait for him to walk up to her.

And it was _then_ that she remembered it happening. As she was listening to Daryl's boots on the stairs. Later on, she wasn't sure if it really happened at all. She might have imagined it. Or maybe she'd thought about that night so much, over the years, that she was remembering what she was _afraid_ of, instead of what really went down.

In any case, she could remember looking at her brother's hand. Could remember the blue cast to the skin in the dim light reflecting off the snow. And the fingers moved, just a little. Just a twitch—so slight you almost couldn't see.

The moment Daryl walked in the door, he froze. Looked at her brother, lying there on the mattress, limp and grey.

Then everything happened in seconds.

Daryl took his crossbow from his shoulder. Shot at something. She wasn't sure what. She'd buried her face in the blankets.

And he scooped her up an instant later. Pressed her face against his chest and started carrying her out of the room. His coat was still cold from the chill outside. Wet with the melting snow.

She struggled a little against him, then. Tried to turn around. Wanted to look back. But he wouldn't let her. Took her head in one hand, and pushed her face into his body. And he carried her down the stairs to the living room, below.

She never saw that upstairs bedroom again.

* * *

Judith killed _one_ of the walkers right away—the closest one. Heard it coming towards the tree trunk where she'd been hiding. So she darted around, and kicked it in the knee. It fell, and she was able to stab it in the eye, after that.

But there were too many. She couldn't fight them all off that way. She looked up from the body. There were three more coming close—only about four yards away. So she spun around, and started to run, again.

The trees whipped by. She felt the sweat running down her skin.

She had no idea where she was going.

And then it happened. A jolt at the back of her neck. A sharp pain.

Her hair. Something was grabbing her hair.

The dead thing pulled her in, and she screamed.

* * *

Daryl found himself in a clearing. Scanned the grass. But she wasn't there.

She was nowhere. _Nowhere_.

And it was all because he'd left her _alone_. He should have taken her with him—should never, _ever_ have let her out of his sight. He wanted to reach back in time and change what he'd done. Wanted to do it differently.

All he had to do was keep an eye on her.

His throat was tight. His hand drifted up to his temples, and he tried to think. She ran from the walkers. And she'd definitely gotten _this_ far… but where did she _go_? The trail was bad. Muddled. He couldn't read it. The walkers had trodden all over everything in circles, and left nothing but a mess of tangled brush.

He breathed in hard. Looked down at the ground again. Tried to catch some sense of her trail. And then he heard it. A shrill scream, piercing through the sound of the wind in the trees.

He'd know that voice anywhere.

He spun around. The sound echoed off the embankments all around him. It reverberated in the air, and he had _no_ idea what direction it was coming from.

He started to lose it, then. Couldn't focus on the trail, anymore. Just shouted her name.

"Judy!"

He felt tears stinging in his eyes as he circled the clearing—pacing on his feet, shouting at the trees as if it'd do one goddamn fucking _thing_ to help her.

"_Judy! Judy!"_

And there was a noise. Movement in the distance. The walkers. Some of them were coming back. He was calling them through the trees. They filtered towards him. Five. Six. But he didn't stop.

"_JUDY! JUDY!"_

* * *

The last of the walkers fell at his feet, and he crouched in front of it. Wiped his knife on its shirt. And saw his hand shaking on the handle.

He was breathing hard. Looked around. The sunlight shot through the trees at him—longer and lower in the sky than before. He'd been out here a good long while, now.

He knew that was bad. And he knew that the walkers he'd just killed had probably been chasing her.

Already, a crow had landed on the forest floor. Started pecking at one of the bodies.

Daryl jumped up, then. Made for the path the walkers had taken—followed the direction they came from. Rushed as fast as he could. The bird startled, and fluttered away from him as he sprang to life.

And it wasn't far before he found the rest of the walkers—all crouching on the ground in a circle. Hovering over something on the forest floor, hidden away in the brush.

As he got close, their faces spun towards him as one, and he saw the blood all over their mouths.

Things got distant, for Daryl. He didn't really remember taking the walkers out. He heard a loud noise—someone shouting at them. Realized it was him.

Before he knew it, he was standing there with the bodies all around him. He felt their blood on his skin—cool against the hot sweat, running down his face.

He was alone with the thing in the brush. The bundle of gore just a few yards away. And he knew he had to go look at it.

He had to be sure. Had to see.

But he just couldn't do it. He couldn't go up to that mess on the ground. Because after he did, there wasn't anything _left_ to do.

After that, there was nothing. Just nothing.

He sank onto his knees, and stared at the dirt in front of his face.

* * *

When Judith found Daryl, he didn't hear her coming towards him. That was pretty weird. He was usually sharp and aware of just about everything. But right then, he wasn't. Was just _sitting_ there on the ground, doing nothing.

So she came up behind him. Saw he'd killed the walkers that got the rider out of that stirrup—the ones who stopped to eat the body. And she'd been able to use that to her advantage—when they were good and distracted, she slipped away into the bushes, and made her escape.

She stepped forward—was right behind him, then, and he _still_ didn't notice.

"Hey, Daryl," she said.

He spun around. Stared at her. His eyes were red.

And the walkers' blood was all _over_ him. He'd really made a mess of himself _this_ time, with them walkers. Usually he was more efficient than that.

He didn't say anything. Was just staring at her, standing there.

"Daryl…?"

She crouched on the ground at his side. Kept on talking, since it didn't seem like he was going to say anything.

"It took me just about forever to find you—I mean, when I looped back to our camp, I saw right away you'd been back. Your tracks were pretty clear, _there_—they were the only fresh ones. Laid out right on top of the rest of 'em. But once I got in the _woods_, the trail was all screwed up."

He reached out. Looked like he was about to touch her hair. Stopped short. Sputtered out a few words:

"How'd… how'd you…?"

"Daryl, I know how to _track things_. I killed a couple of 'em, too. One of 'em got me right by the hair. But I had my knife out and got it _good_."

He didn't seem like he was really hearing her. Wouldn't stop _staring_ at her like that. And Judy was a little confused.

"Daryl, it's _fine_. I'm _fine_. God."

He nodded, absently. Looked her over. Judy had a dead rabbit hanging over one shoulder—and she smiled when she saw him looking at it. She had it strung up by the hind legs. She was still little enough that it draped over a good part of her back. She could feel its paws brushing against her side.

She rolled the rabbit off her shoulder and held it up for him—and she was smiling brightly now. Could feel it on her own face. And with that, she forgot about the whole ordeal completely.

"I killed this on my way back, _see?_ All by myself. We can use it for dinner."

Judy just _loved_ showing him things she'd done.

He reached out for her shoulder. Held it. Started to get up off the ground. Leaned into her a bit, for a moment—as if he needed her to support his weight as he stood up.

"C'mon, kid," he said. Stepped ahead of her, and led the way back to camp.


	4. Hey, Jude

_Chapter four for you, today. __Not much to report on this end. Except that I really enjoyed writing this. It may be the happiest thing I've ever written in this universe._

_Please do check out my tumblr-under the name Praxid. I'm making a series of TWD Valentines this month, and I'm having just about the best time with them, over there. Join me! ;)_

* * *

_Hey, Jude_

The moment Judith woke that morning, she could feel it starting up again. The raw ache deep in her guts—like a hand was grabbing at her from within, then squeezing.

She lay there on her bedroll. Breathed in hard, trying to ride out the pain. When this happened to her _last_ month, it came in waves. That invisible hand would twist at her insides, and then it'd let go for a while.

It'd probably ease off a bit if she just waited. So she balled up her fists, counted to ten, and tried to breathe through the raw, hard, clenching _hurt_.

And Judy heard something at her side. Daryl, shifting on his own bedroll. Stirring at the sound of her heavy breath. She froze up. Waited. He didn't move again—hadn't woken up. So it was ok.

She didn't want him to know about this.

Because Judith still remembered what happened to her brother—couldn't stop remembering it. And the only thing that would have made that night worse is if Daryl _hadn't_ come back when he went out for help. If something had happened to him, too.

And he'd do it again—if he realized something was wrong with her, he'd do _anything_ to find a way to fix it. Judy couldn't bear to send him away. To risk him not coming back again—just because _she_ was sick. Because of her.

She sat up, then, in their tent. Curled up into her knees and wrapped her arms around her shins. Breathed into them and tried to will the pain away.

Everything that happened _last time_ was bound to happen all over again—the pain, the nausea. Then the bleeding. When it happened before, it went away after a while. And she'd been so _relieved_. But _this_ time, she didn't know if it'd go away. She might just keep on bleeding until whatever was wrong inside killed her.

She looked over at Daryl—lying on his side in a pile, there. At his closed eyes. The flare of his nostrils as he breathed.

Judy had just _barely_ managed to hide this whole thing from him, the first time—and it was nearly impossible for her to keep a secret from Daryl. Not when they were together almost all the time. But she'd been utterly desperate to do it. To protect him.

But if the pain got worse—the bleeding got worse, he'd find out. And then everything she'd done to hide this from him wouldn't mean a single damn _thing_.

His eyes fluttered open, then. He looked up at her, where she was sitting with her chin on her knees. Saw she was watching him, and smiled a bleary smile.

"Hey there, kiddo."

And she felt the pain swelling deep inside her, again. Felt that invisible hand grabbing at her, and twisting.

She couldn't take this.

So she let out an angry breath. Slammed a hand down on her pillow, and made for the tent flap so she could get away from him.

"_God, _Daryl_. Shut_ _up_."

* * *

Daryl tried to give Judy a pretty wide berth that morning—for his own fucking _safety_, if nothing else.

He didn't really get why she was so bent out of shape. It was a gorgeous fall day—and the leaves were at their peak. And the two of them were pretty far north now—Vermont, maybe. Or New Hampshire. Someplace where the sloping hills got to looking like a paint-by-number landscape this time of year.

And Daryl—he loved it.

Judy, though… she didn't seem to be _noticing_, this morning. Must've got up on the wrong side of the tent—or _something_.

That was happening more and more. She was thirteen, now. Thirteen. Somehow, without ever realizing it was coming, Daryl found himself spending every hour of every day with a teenage girl. So far, he'd discovered that eye-rolling was some kind of inborn feminine instinct that kicked in at a certain age. No one needed to _show_ Judy how to do it. She just _knew_.

He watched her from the other side of their campsite, way over at the smoky remains of their nighttime fire. Sat on the ground, and packed one of his bags. And she was trying to strike their tent—like she did every morning. But she was clumsy with it, this time. Impatient. Tried to pull out a stake and lost her grip. Almost fell over.

She kicked at the tent, then. Hit the side of her ankle against that stubborn stake, and winced under her breath.

"_Damn_ it!"

That was enough. Daryl put down the bag he'd been packing, and went on over to her. Watched her, hopping around on one foot, clutching at her ankle with her hand.

"Judy, you gonna tell me what the hell's goin' on with you?"

"_Go away!_"

He gritted his teeth, bit his tongue, and turned to go back to his work.

"Wait—no," she said, "_Don't_ go away, ok, Daryl?"

Daryl looked at her.

"Kid, you're tryin' my none-too-considerable _patience_, here."

"Don't go away. _Don't_, please?"

He let out a breath, and made his way back towards his bag, where it lay on the ground near the dead fire. And he heard a noise behind him, and realized Judy was _following_ him over there.

And she took his arm.

"Don't—please—_don't_ go for help."

He stopped walking, then. Wheeled around, and went back to her.

"Help? Wait—_what_?"

"It's… _God_."

She shook her head. Put a hand to her temple, then pulled it away again.

"I'm just… I'm…"

Before she could finish the sentence, she let out a choked sob. Covered her mouth with one hand. He saw the tears starting up in the corners of her eyes, and instantly forgot how damned annoying she'd been all morning.

"_Judy_…"

"Daryl… it started last month. I didn't wanna tell you so you wouldn't _worry_ about me. And then it went away and it was fine but now it's _back_ and I dunno if it'll get worse…"

"What?" Daryl asked her, "_What'll_ get worse?"

"I'm—I'm _bleeding_."

He grabbed her by the shoulders—started checking her over. Ran his hands over her arms, looking for a sign.

"You're _what_—where?"

She didn't say anything. Just looked at him. And it hit him straight on, then.

"Oh."

He let go of her arms.

"_Oh_."

She was a _teenage girl_, now. Had been for a good four or five months. And of course he knew what _that_ meant. But he never told her about _any_ of this kind of stuff. Somehow, he'd completely forgotten.

"Oh, _shit_."

* * *

To Daryl, it seemed like it took Judy _forever_ to process what he was trying to tell her. She just stood there, for a good few minutes. When she finally sat down next to their mangled tent, he joined her.

"So," Judy said, "You're tellin' me this is _supposed_ to happen."

"Right."

"And… it means I can get pregnant, now."

"Right."

"And it's gonna keep happenin' for a long time."

"Uh, I guess maybe forty years or so?"

She nodded at her shoes. Went silent a good while. Then she turned to him, again.

"So you _knew about this _and you never_ said anything_?"

And without any warning, she smacked him pretty hard. Right on the arm.

He'd been feeling pretty bad about the whole thing, until then. Awkward, and guilty for letting her down. But right _then_… right then with her glaring at him like that, it started to seem kind of funny.

"Hey now," he said, chuckling under his breath, "_Easy there_, killer."

And he could tell that annoyed the hell out of her. But he couldn't seem to _stop_ it. That low chuckle rolled out and swelled and, before he knew it, he was leaning his head in his hand, laughing hard.

And she jumped on him, then. Came in at him fists first. She'd always loved to play-wrestle, yes—but _this_ time she meant business.

"_Fuck you_, Daryl! I thought was fucking _dying_!"

She tried to pin him with her tiny arms, and he just couldn't contain it—didn't even try. Laughed and laughed. Gasped out some words as best he could.

"I'm sorry, honey."

Daryl rolled over with her, onto the ground, and let her pummel him all she wanted—she was a spindly little thing, and there was no real force to those blows.

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

They walked the road that morning—like they did most mornings. And Daryl decided they should double back on the route they'd been travelling. The day before, they saw a little settlement of people about five miles back, tucked into the hills of a low valley. At the time, they avoided it—for safety—and slipped away. But now, he thought it would make sense to go back there. See if they could trade for some supplies—something that'd help Judy along with this whole new adventure.

And thinking of _that_, Daryl tried to ease his pace, a little—to make things easier on her with how bad she was feeling.

"So," Judy said, "… forty _years_, you say."

"… give or take?"

"_Fantastic_."

He spread his hands.

"I don't make the rules, kid."

"… how could you _possibly_ forget to tell me somethin' like this?"

"I dunno…" he said, trailing off a moment. Felt that guilt stabbing at him again. But he answered as best he could:

"… I guess I ain't never had a kid around before. Certainly no _girl_."

"No kids, at _all_? You mean you never had one of your own?"

He shook his head. Felt himself getting quiet. And Judy walked silently at his side, a while, before speaking up again.

"No relatives…?"

"Not really—none younger'n me, at least," he said, "… though I guess my _brother_ might've had some kids I didn't know about."

The whip-poor-wills were calling in the maples around them—still sheltering in the trees even at this late date. The hard frost hadn't come yet—but when it did, those birds would move south, again. It would happen soon. And Daryl and Judy would move south, too—right along with them.

They listened to the calls. Other than those sweet sounds, the whole road was silent.

Even in that quiet, Daryl sensed signs of habitation all around them. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt, heading in the direction of that settlement. Tree limbs that had been pruned back to keep the road clear. And on some of those maples, there were nails sticking out of the trunks—for syrup taps, come spring.

This was a place people lived, and it had an entirely different feeling from the wilderness the two of them so often made their home.

Then Judy broke his train of thought.

"So. If you never been 'round kids… how'd you know _how_?"

"… how to what?"

"How to take care of me."

He smiled.

"I didn't—you'd think that'd be pretty damned obvious _this_ morning."

"But you knew _somethin'_. You're always sayin' how you were first to feed me. When I got born."

"Yeah," he said, "I was."

"So how'd you know how to _do_ it?"

"Well… you remember I told you 'bout old man Harris?"

"Yeah—the guy with the farm? Near where you grew up?"

"Right. And one time—I must've been 'bout your age—he had this orphaned baby horse, and he let me help take care of it. Don't think he really needed any help, lookin' back. Just wanted to give me somewhere to _go_, is all. So I bottle fed that little thing for a few months straight. In the afternoons—after school."

Judy mulled that over. Took it in like she took in all of his stories. She seemed hungry for them—always. Wanted to know everything he had to say.

Then she let out a little, girlish giggle. And to Daryl, it sounded like the birds in the trees.

"… so you pretended I was a _horse?_"

"Among other things."

A horse, a boy, a puppy. Whatever seemed like it'd keep them going, really.

"Well," Judy said, "Seein' as we're still here and all, I guess it worked."

"…I guess it did."

And they headed down the sloping hill, and breathed in the slightly raw, autumn air. Felt the wind on their faces. Watched the leaves shaking from the trees in a fluttering shower of red and orange and gold. Their feet made a gravelly sound against the torn-up, old asphalt—and from that sound, Daryl realized they were pretty much walking in step, together. The rhythm was soothing.

A while later, Judy spoke up, again. Smiled at him just like she always had. Really—no matter what was changing—she still looked like a little girl, to him.

"Daryl, tell me about the time my brother got shot."

She liked that story. Carl used to tell it to her when she was really little. When he did it, he'd pull up his shirt, and show her the scar.

"Well," Daryl said, "They were out in the woods—way out deep. Your daddy and your brother. And they see this deer comin' outta the brush…"

* * *

Two hours later, Judith found herself sitting in a stranger's bedroom. In a house in the little settlement they'd been heading for.

Daryl negotiated their way into the community, while she stood sheltered at his back. And then, when they were in, he went straight to business. Went to figure out what he could trade with those people. What they could get. And he found a woman to look after Judy, while he did it. To help her. To show her what to do about the bleeding.

And she was still with that woman—who said her name was Mattie. She was standing behind Judy at a vanity table, and Judy could see her reflection in the mirror, as Mattie braided her hair. She had a row of bobby pins sticking out of her mouth.

"You see, if you do the French braids from each side…"

Mattie paused, and leaned in close to the work. Did something to the back of Judy's head. She couldn't see it, but she could feel the pull on her hair—tight but gentle.

"… you can get them to meet up in the middle."

"How do you get 'em to stay even?"

"You have to make them nice and tight."

"Like with rope?"

"Yeah," she said, putting down a spare barrette, "Exactly like that."

And Judy tried to calm down—focus on what Mattie was teaching her. But she was still unsettled. They'd taken her gun and knife from her. Her empty holster and sheath were hanging there on her belt—and without the weight of the weapons at her side, Judy felt off-kilter.

She found herself scanning the room for something she could defend herself with—if anything went wrong. Mattie seemed ok, but she still had no idea what might happen.

Judy saw Mattie watching her looking around, and tried to distract her.

"You lived here forever?"

"Not _forever_. But a long time."

"Since the walkers?"

"Not right away. But around then."

"Is it nice? Living here?"

She shrugged.

"It's home."

Judy started to forget her nervousness, then, and got a little curious. Wondered about what it was like to _say_ something like that. To have the same big group of people around—relatives and friends all there with you, all the time.

"So everyone's been safe here, the whole time…?"

Mattie looked down at the table.

"No. Not everyone."

Judy changed the subject.

"… why are you named Mattie?"

"Cause my mom named me that, why'd you think?"

"What's it mean?"

"It's short for Matilda. I got teased for that in school… back when there still _was_ school."

"Judith was a warrior. She's in a book called the Bible."

Mattie smiled. Judy could see her face in the mirror.

"… I've heard of it."

Mattie finished whatever she was doing to Judith's hair. And Judy looked at herself in the mirror. At the complicated, woven braids. And she heard a familiar sound—Daryl, letting out a low, grumbling breath. He was in the door, watching. Judy wasn't sure how long he'd been there.

Mattie looked at him, a long moment, then turned back to Judy.

"You know," Mattie said, "I've got a bunch of little cousins, and they're usually out playing ball about this time. I bet they'd like to meet you."

And Mattie gave Daryl another look, then—one Judy didn't entirely understand. But she shrugged it off, and left the adults alone, and ran off outside to play.

* * *

Some time later, Daryl rolled out of Mattie's bed. Looked for his clothes, wherever they'd ended up.

As he rummaged around, he could hear the voices of the kids outside. Could hear Judy's voice, among them, now that he wasn't so distracted.

And the girl—Mattie—the one he'd asked to help Judy. She perched on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a sheet against the cool, autumn air.

He leaned on her window, and looked out, buttoning his shirt. Watched Judy running after some of the other kids, out in the yard. The rest of the crowd were a little younger than her—but she didn't seem to mind. And there was a dog—Judy _loved_ dogs—and they were all throwing around a tennis ball for it.

He sensed movement behind him—the girl, shimmying back into her jeans. He turned to her, and asked a question.

"How'd it go—with Judy's hair?"

The hair things were still laid out on her nightstand—had been when she closed the door and pulled him into that kiss. The bobby pins, and various brushes—other things from that feminine world he didn't really understand.

"Great," she said, "She learns fast—and she's got real good coordination, too. That's gonna help her."

He understood what the girl meant—that it would help Judy to fight. To survive. And as she hooked her bra, she kept on talking.

"You know, I was about her age when this whole thing with the geeks started... didn't get to play with dogs anymore after _that_."

She pulled on her shirt, and led him out through hall with her. Almost immediately, they ran into another woman—Daryl guessed it was the girl's sister. She had a baby boy in her arms, and handed him over to Mattie. Daryl looked the kid over, resting there on her hip.

"Things change," he said.

The baby let out a cry, then, and reached for Mattie's face. Tugged at her ear, and she smiled.

"Sometimes for the better."

She shifted the baby in her arms. Bounced him up and down, and he settled.

And after that, she led Daryl straight to the front door. Stood in it, at his side, looking out at the kids in the yard.

"She's a sweet little thing—your daughter."

He almost said it, then—that Judy wasn't really his. But just this once, he didn't. He just watched Judy run, and listened to the baby coo in the girl's arms.

"Yeah," he said, "She is."

* * *

It was getting late, by then—so the group let Judy and Daryl stay overnight. Offered them a room in one of the main houses. And Daryl thought it was a good idea to say yes. His instincts were pretty sharp, and the place had a good feeling, to him. The two of them could safely sleep here, one night.

It was just a few dozen people—mostly related. Hiding away here, tucked under the hills by a lake.

When those people asked them to stay the night, it was clear what they meant. The two of them could stay _the_ night. Only one. After that, they'd be expected to move on.

It wasn't a forever kind of thing—not even close. He knew that. Knew _Judy_ knew it.

But it was the kind of place he might want for her, someday.

Today just wasn't that day. It was hard to get people to trust you. Hard to trust people. And these folks would _never_ have let Daryl in alone—not if Judy hadn't been there. Judy was a pretty little girl—and still looked really small. Vulnerable. When they met the right kind of people, those things made it so they wanted to help them.

Still, there was a limit. He could fuck one of their women, but the two of them couldn't stay.

No one would want them to.

But while they were here, Daryl wanted to make the most of things for Judy, while he could. Saw a guitar in one of the common rooms. Asked if someone knew how to play it. Asked if that someone might play it for Judy.

And a lot of the group went out by the water, that night. Started a fire and sat in the crisp, autumn air. At first, he was pretty sure no one was going to bring that guitar. But after an hour or so, one of the older men came over, and Daryl saw that he had it hanging on his back.

That man. He reminded Daryl a little of Dale. Thought he'd tell Judy that, later, before they went to bed.

"Little girl," the man said, turning to Judy, "You wanna hear something?"

She shied back a bit, where she was sitting at Daryl's side, on a blanket. Took a moment to answer.

"… ok."

And the man started playing—something delicate and bright. Daryl could tell it was classical and very, very old. He didn't know it, but it was the _Gavotte en Rondeau_ from Bach's _Partita No. 3 in E Major_.

And Daryl watched Judy's face as he played. She was spellbound.

When it was over, Daryl smiled. Nudged her, gently.

"You like that, Jude?"

She smiled back. Nodded to him, shyly. Being around all these people was making her nervous.

"_Jude_," the old man said, resting the guitar on his knee, "That's your name?"

"Yeah. It's really Judy—I mean _Judith_. My brother picked it for me when we were at the prison."

She was always like that. Talked about her family as if everyone knew who they were. What they were like. And the old man just rolled with it. Nodded.

"It's a pretty name."

She didn't thank him. Looked down, and shrank a little next to Daryl. And that old man—he didn't seem to mind. Just looked down at his hands, and started strumming on the guitar again.

Then he sang.

"_Hey, Jude—don't be afraid. Take a sad song, and make it better…"_

And Judy—she was still hiding a little behind Daryl, sitting on that wool blanket on the grass. And she leaned in close to him, as she listened to the music. He felt her hand on his back—a finger, trailing along his leather vest. And he wasn't sure what she was doing, at first.

Then he realized it. It was the wings—the wings on the vest. She was tracing the patterns of the feathers with one finger.

It twisted at him. There was so much to worry about. She was getting bigger. Daryl wasn't too good at talking—even at this late date. But there was a lot he'd need to find words for. He'd need to explain what men might expect from her—men like Randall. Men like Merle. He'd need to find a way to make her understand how hard she'd have to fight to protect herself. How despite what those men might say, that she didn't owe anything to anybody. That she was worth more than that.

But not now. Not tonight. Tonight, Judith was still just a little girl. And she was his, and things were ok.


	5. Bad Men

_This chapter is slightly intense—I'm including a warning for violence and indirect references to sexual assault. However, it is not very graphic and I think it fits well within this rating._

_Please follow me on tumblr—name of Praxid. Enjoy!_

* * *

_Bad Men:_

By the time she was fourteen years old, Judith was getting pretty tall. She was whipcord thin. All the walking honed her muscles, and she could run for miles at a stretch. Everything she owned was in her rucksack, or slung on her belt.

She carried her life on her back, and the constant weight on her shoulders made her strong.

Sometime around her birthday, Daryl finally gave her the python. He pulled it from his bag, one night, as they sat by their fire. Handed it to her without a word. And she took it—felt the weight of it in her hands. Held it, and knew that it was hers.

And that wasn't all. He'd scrounged up a good number of rounds for it—stashed them away in a box for her. Handed those over, too. He'd tied a bit of string around the box in a bow—for her birthday.

With how scarce bullets were getting, it might have taken him _years_ to collect that many. But her Daryl—he planned ahead.

And so from then on out, she counted those bullets carefully—kept track of exactly how many she'd used, and how many she had left. Just like she did when she was really little. Like when she met that little boy on the roadside, all those years ago, and he gave her four bullets for her brother's .22.

She thought about that day, sometimes. About that little boy. About how those four bullets meant she had four more shots than she'd have had otherwise. How that might change everything that happened later.

Because life is like that. Everything's connected. You change one thing, and everything else changes right along with it.

* * *

And on _this_ day, Daryl and Judith were way out in the deepest wilderness. But this place hadn't always been wild. Before Judy was born, it had rested on the outskirts of a busy city. But now—now the whole area was utterly deserted. An elephant graveyard. And off at the horizon, the city skyline spread out behind her. The empty buildings hung in the hazy distance—like birds drooping on a power line.

She breathed in, once. Moved along the side wall of an old department store. She was big enough, now, that she helped Daryl sweep the buildings they searched on supply runs. She took the back of the store, this time. He took the front. They'd meet in the middle.

It was getting harder and harder to find things—things they needed. And Judy kept on outgrowing her clothes. Her shoes. Today, she needed new hiking boots. Most of what was left lying around was rotten or moldy—couldn't be worn. You had to search and search to find stuff that hadn't been exposed to the elements, or looted already.

So they traveled out—out into the empty places. Into this abandoned, nameless city, where some supplies might still be lying around, somewhere, forgotten.

She slipped into the side entrance—it was just hanging open when she came up to it. She hovered there—light on the balls of her feet, and scanned the shoproom floor. It was a tangled mess of racks and shelves—draped with rotted clothing no one had ever worn.

The roof had long since collapsed in places. Those things weren't built to last. And the fallen leaves and dirt and rain found their way in and went about their business—made a thin layer of soil, where plants took seed. Shafts of light poured through the vines spilling out from the torn-up ceiling—through the branches of the sapling maples taking root around the jewelry counter.

Beyond that, the aisles dissolved into haze of light and shadow.

There was nothing moving. The place was silent. Daryl was somewhere at the front, but she knew she wouldn't hear him moving around up there. She crept past the trees, and made her way into the dark. Started tracing a path along the side wall, searching the shadows for any sign they weren't alone.

As Judy moved, she realized the store had been picked over for the best stuff. Probably got cleared out years and years ago—when Judy was still just a little kid. She passed the gun counter—saw that it was looted clean. Nothing left but broken glass and cobwebs.

Beyond that, she saw a pile of old bones and dried skin. There was brown blood caked on the linoleum.

But Judy was used to seeing things like that—they were lying around everywhere. The moment she realized the bones were really and truly dead—weren't going to get up and attack her—she forgot about them completely.

She started moving further into the store. Found an end-cap stacked with Dover paperbacks. And it was angled just right to keep out the rain—so those books were in pretty good shape. Judy paused, and ran her finger over the spines. Pulled _Call of the Wild _from the pile.

Judith thought Daryl might like that one.

She slipped it into her bag, and stepped into a patch of sunlight pouring down from a hole in the roof.

She turned, and saw a half dozen figures, standing there in front of her. She gasped, and started backwards.

But they were mannequins. That's all. Just mannequins.

She slipped in-between them. At the corner of her eye, she saw the shadowed shapes of the arms, reaching for her. The curve of a plastic breast. A dusty face, staring off into nothing.

And one of the shapes—one of the arms. It _moved_.

She froze. Held her breath.

And a man stepped out towards her. A living, breathing man. Slipped right out of the shadows, from behind one of those mannequins. A second man followed him, and then a third. That third man was really tall. Let out a thin, strange little laugh the moment he first saw her.

* * *

"C'mon, Judy, try it again."

Now that she was getting taller—stronger—Daryl had been starting to train her more seriously than he had in the past. So far, she'd discovered he was a pretty harsh teacher.

And that afternoon, he wanted her to try to attack him. They'd been at it for a good while. It was suffocatingly hot—even for the middle of summer.

She sprang at him—but it was no use. He pushed her away without a thought. She spun on her feet, and barely kept from toppling over.

"_No_," he said, "_Again_."

So Judy tried again. He knocked her aside like he wasn't even _trying_—like she was nothing but a kitten batting at a ball of string.

"_No_. You're telegraphin' your damned moves, Jude. I can see you comin' a mile off."

The heat stabbed at her, then. She was panting hard. But she didn't give up. Tried to swing at him. He grabbed her arm as she did it, and pinned her against his side. Then he pushed her away again.

"_No_."

She let out a breath. Wiped at the sweat on her forehead. Paced on the ground.

"_God_, Daryl. It's hot out. I'm _tired_. What does it even _matter_? Them geeks're too stupid to _know_ what I'm gonna do."

He shook his head. Came right at her, staring hard.

"Not just geeks you're gonna have to fight—it's _men_."

He jabbed a finger at her. Started circling around where she stood.

"_Bad_ men."

Instinctively, she found herself keeping pace with him. Stepping away. But he just kept coming closer.

"When those men come, they'll be _bigger_ than you, and _stronger_ than you, and they won't have one fucking _thing_ to lose."

* * *

The first man—the one in front—he just stood there a moment. Looked her over.

Then he smiled.

"Thought I heard some little feet rap-tap-tapping back here," he said, looking over his shoulder—back to one of his two friends, "Didn't I say I thought that?"

That second man nodded.

"You sure did, Bobby. Said it's gotta be a little mouse."

Bobby smiled, again.

"What you doin', little mouse?"

The third one—the tall one—_he_ didn't say anything. Just laughed that reedy laugh, again. Picked at his face with one hand.

Judith decided that she hated him most of all.

And Bobby—he still had his eyes on her. On her body. She stepped backwards. Felt her lip curling with disgust.

"How old are you?" he asked.

And she narrowed her eyes. Felt her hand hovering at her side—right over that holstered python.

"Old enough to _know better_."

* * *

On that hot, summer afternoon, the training session felt like it'd been going on for hours—Judy had no idea how long it'd _actually_ been. She was gasping for air. Coated with sweat. She felt the sun piercing into her skin.

She kept screwing up. Every damned time. Couldn't get at Daryl, no matter _what_ she did. But Judy kept on trying. Lunged for him, and he got her by the arm. Twisted—hard—and she lost her balance. Ended up flat on the ground. The force knocked the breath out of her, and she lay there, groaning.

"There," he said, looking down at her, "Now you're dead."

And she realized it. He'd just been _playing_ with her, at first—shoving her out of the way without really trying. Now he was hitting a little harder—hard enough to throw her down. And she got the sense he was _still_ holding back.

She scrabbled up. Tried again. This time he got her in a choke hold, then pushed her away by the shoulders. She crumpled. Caught herself with her palms on the dirt. Felt her hair falling out of her braids, and catching on the sweat coating her forehead.

She heard his voice floating out from behind her.

"You're dead."

She tried to get in a right hook, and he blocked her. Swept her legs out from under her. Before she could react, she was down.

"_No_—You're _dead_."

She shouted at him, incoherently, and rushed him head on. He put out one hand, and caught her. He struck with the other—aimed for her center mass. She tried to block him, but the force was too much. She collapsed.

"_No_."

She started to pick herself up, and before she could even stand, he pushed her down by the shoulders.

"_No_."

This time, she didn't try to stand. Just stayed there in the dirt, in a crumpled pile, and felt her breath catching in her throat.

The tears came a moment later.

Before she knew it, she was sobbing into her hands. And Daryl—he didn't say anything. Just waited. Paced around in the dirt. The cicadas called in the sun.

Finally, she settled. Started wiping at her eyes and catching her breath.

"Ok," he said, "Get up. Let's try it again."

* * *

Bobby stepped towards her, and she stepped back. Soon, they found themselves circling each other. And she watched him carefully the whole time. The shadows from the mannequin's hands moved over his face.

His eye dropped to her holster—he must have seen that she was tensed up—ready to draw. And he shook his head at that. Chuckled under his breath.

He thought it was _funny_.

"That's a pretty big gun for such a little girl."

His friend chimed in again.

"Bobby's got a pretty big gun."

The tall man laughed, from behind. The one who didn't talk. He bit at a hangnail on one finger. And Bobby smiled.

"Yeah, honey. Big. Might just mess up all your pretty little insides."

And Judy—she knew exactly what he was saying. Somehow, she remembered one of the earliest stories Daryl read to her, then.

_All the better to eat you with._

She backed up further into the shadows. All three followed, this time. She glared into their faces.

"_You'll have to kill me, first."_

* * *

Every time Daryl knocked her onto the ground, she felt like some kind of limp little rag doll.

She pushed forward. A little weaker now—she was totally worn out. And he tossed her down—at this point, she'd lost count of how many times he'd done it.

That was enough. She felt the tears stinging in her eyes, again. Shouted at him, from the ground.

"I can't do it, Daryl! I _can't_. You're too damn _strong_. I can't overpower you."

He gestured to the air, then. Shouted back.

"_Halle-fucking-luiah_. She's seen the light."

"_What?_"

"You ain't gonna knock me over or punch me out—why you _tryin'_?"

She felt the hurt showing on her own face. Couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"So what you _sayin_'? I'm easy pickin's and there ain't nothin' I can _do_ about it?"

He stopped in his tracks. Crouched down beside her, and put a hand on her shoulder.

"No, Judy," he said, leaning in close, "Ain't _no one_ gonna lay a hand to you. Not _ever_."

He stepped away again. Kept on talking. His eyes never left her.

"Now you're getting pretty strong for your build, but these men are gonna have muscle power you don't got. You just _don't_. Never will. But _you_ got things _they_ don't got. Now there's ways for you to _try_ and fight 'em hand to hand, and I'm gonna show you those ways. But that's not where to put your trust—not when your back's against the wall."

Daryl pointed at her with one hand, then. Held her in that steady gaze.

"You're fast, Judy. You're _smart_."

And he pulled her up by one hand. Took her by both shoulders, and leaned in.

"So you gotta _evade_ 'em, and you gotta _outhink_ 'em."

He stepped back. And in an instant, he struck out with his fist.

She darted to the side. She was fast, and light on her feet, and she leapt out of his path. He missed her completely. Lost his balance a moment, with his weight thrown forward like that, into the empty air.

And Judith found herself just _standing_ there—shocked she wasn't crumpled on the ground, again. But she _wasn't_. She was ok.

And Daryl, he was grinning at her.

"Oh honey, you're gonna fuck 'em up so hard they won't _know_ what got 'em dead."

* * *

The three men stood in front of her. No one had said what was happening. Given it a name. But when Judith looked at them, their eyes shared that knowledge.

In that moment, she sensed the movement behind them. Something creeping forward in the shadows at their backs. And she didn't focus on it. Didn't move her eyes from Bobby's face. Because she _knew_ that it was Daryl—knew it with as sure a faith as she'd ever known anything—and she didn't want them to realize he was coming up from behind.

"What—you think we're gonna _kill_ you? Nah, honey. Not _you_. Nobody's killin' _nobody_, here. We ain't gonna hurt you. You just gimme that there big gun."

And she realized that Bobby thought he could just _ask_ her and she'd hand the python over. Thought she'd fall to pieces with him staring at her that way.

They'd done this before—with other girls—and those other times, that's _exactly_ what happened. She was sure of it. So that's what Bobby was expecting, this time.

And she wanted to kill him. All of them. Like she'd shot those two men in their campsite, years before—the ones who had Daryl cornered. Like those men, these ones had it _coming_.

Daryl was getting close. She needed to give him a little more time to set up the ambush. So she looked up at Bobby. Widened her eyes, and tried to work a catch into her voice:

"If I give you my gun… you _promise_ you won't hurt me?"

"Naw, little mouse. You're safe, now. You're lucky we done _found_ you, girl. All by yourself, way out here? Ain't nothing but us and the biters for a hundred miles."

He spread his hands.

"Now that ain't no life for a little thing like you."

And that man—Bobby. He had his hand on his holster. He wanted her to see that. Was sending a message.

It was coming soon. The fight.

She breathed in and tried to loosen up her muscles. Waited for a sign. She'd know when it was time to strike.

"But you don't got nothin' to worry about now. We'll take good care of—"

She drew on him and fired in one, smooth motion. Aimed for his chest, then his skull. Struck him head on, and he fell.

She didn't stop—turned to the second man. Fired—but she only caught his arm. She thought that'd slow him down, but he was still up. Closed with her. Came in swinging—a hard right aimed at her face. She deftly leapt to the side and he struck the empty air. Went spinning. So she caught him. Struck him in the knee with her boot, and grabbed him by the arms.

And Daryl was there. Right behind him. She threw the man towards him, and Daryl buried his knife in the nape of his neck.

And the third man—the laughing man. He was halfway down the aisle. Running away.

Daryl rolled his crossbow from his shoulder. Didn't rush. Took his time, took his aim, and took him down.

* * *

When it was over, Daryl turned to her. Looked her over.

"You ok, Jude?"

She brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. Holstered the python.

"Yeah, Daryl. You?"

He patted her arm, gently.

"Yeah, kid. I'm fine."

And he turned to leave, then. Clearly expected her to follow. But she didn't.

"Wait, Daryl—we still need to find those shoes for me."

He shook his head, at that. Seemed like he was about to chuckle—despite everything.

"Right," he said, "They're over this way."

"Hang on."

Judy was thinking of that box of .357 rounds—about how hard he must've worked to gather them for her.

"We should go over the bodies. Take their ammunition. Whatever else they got."

She rolled Bobby over with her foot, then crouched on the ground to rifle through his clothes. There was a hunting knife. A lighter with fluid. One of those souvenir coins—the kind you press out at truck stops. She'd never seen one of those before. Didn't know what it was. Shrugged, and tossed it on the ground.

And when she pulled his gun, she rolled out the cylinder. Stared at it, and let out a breath.

The _gall_ that guy had.

"Daryl, God—his gun—it wasn't even _loaded_."

* * *

There was a lone walker in the parking lot, as they left. Called by the gunshots, maybe. It was slow on its dragging feet. Judy stabbed it with her hunting knife, and left it to lie where it fell. And she and Daryl headed for the interstate beyond the parking lot. Daryl fell into step at her side, and having him close eased her nerves. And she thought of the walker in that parking lot, a little.

It'd rot away, and wither, like the other bones inside the store. Like Bobby's bones. Like the rusted out hulks of the cars, tangled up on the highway stretching out before the two of them.


	6. The Owl's Nest

_Hello, everyone. Chapter Six is ready for you, today. Judy's really starting to grow up, and so is this story. There will be ten chapters, total. I had wanted to finish this before the end of the midseason hiatus, but as you can tell, that isn't happening. I guess the only thing for it is to press on._

_Do please follow my tumblr, under the name Praxid. I just got myself a wonderful new scanner, and it's adding a whole new dimension of fun to posting my artwork!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_The Owl's Nest_

"Careful, Jude—watch your foot. Watch your foot."

Daryl had Judy cradled in his arms. He propped the barn door open with one shoulder, and guided her carefully through to the dark space within. Did his best to make sure the doors wouldn't hit her as they fell shut behind him.

She was hurt pretty bad, this time.

He already had a sense of _how_ bad—even just a few minutes after it happened. She'd tripped over a tree root, and when he tried to help her up, she couldn't stand on her own. Putting weight on her foot was too painful.

So he took her here. Laid her down on the loose mess of hay that covered the hardpack dirt. It was sheltered in the barn—quiet. He wanted her somewhere like that while he checked her out.

This would do.

"How's it feelin'?" he asked, gently lifting her leg. Laying it on his bag, to elevate it as much as he could. Judy looked up to him with those large, dark eyes, and her voice cracked a little when she answered:

"… it _hurts_."

She was breathing hard. Balling up her fists and biting her lip—like she was trying not to cry.

Poor thing was only fifteen years old, and she was frightened. And Daryl didn't really know what to say—she had every reason to be scared out of her fucking _mind_. She knew how dangerous being hurt was. How vulnerable it made her—_both_ of them—if she couldn't run.

Right then—as if she knew what he was thinking—her breath started hitching in her throat. Her eyes were welling up.

Without realizing he was doing it, he reached out. Patted the side of her face with one hand. Brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. And when he spoke to her, his voice was hushed:

"Ok—ok. Easy, now."

He leaned in towards her foot, then. Laid a reassuring hand on her knee.

"_Shh.._."

Daryl looked her ankle over. She'd managed to get her boot off before he'd carried her in here—though it hurt enough that she swore a blue streak when she did it. The skin was already pretty swollen, and kind of purple. He touched it, very lightly, and she winced. And he palpated the area. Pushed at one side of the bone—as gently as he could—and then another. When he reached one spot on the inside corner, she cried out.

That proved what he'd already suspected—it was some kind of hairline fracture.

He shook his head.

"Sorry, Jude—this ankle's good and broken. You're gonna be out of commission for a _long_ time."

"… How long?"

"Dunno… maybe a month? Two?"

"God—_really?_"

She hit her fist against the hay. Let out an angry breath.

"Damned _root_. Why didn't I see it? It was right _there_._"_

"It's ok. I'll keep you safe. Just need to hole up somewhere while you heal. I'll find a place."

She turned her head—looked to the barn door, as if she expected something to approach that instant, and attack them.

"_Hey_—Judy."

He caught her face. Pressed gently, so she'd look at him.

"I'm gonna keep you _safe_."

He looked around. Up to the roof. The hayloft. And it dawned on him. The _hayloft_—that was as good a place as he could hope for.

No one would think to look up there. It was safer than the farmhouse would be—hidden well away from where other survivors might go. And with the ladder, if any walkers came, they wouldn't be able to climb up to get at her.

He gestured up there. Threw her one of his crooked smiles. And he could tell by her face she knew exactly what he had in mind.

"Ok, kid—ready to go to roost?"

* * *

That night, Judy couldn't sleep. Just sat there with her thoughts—way up on her perch, at Daryl's side. And she listened to the summer wind rattling the old walls around them.

It took Daryl a good hour to figure a way to hoist her up here—into the safety of this little space, hidden up above everything else. Tucked away into the shelter of the gambrel roof.

But when he did, he laid her down on a little nest of sheets he'd prepared for her. Brought her a little something to eat. Then he sat with her until well after dark. Just talking to her, and telling her stories.

And now he was asleep at her side—like always. Every night she could remember.

The pain in Judy's ankle ached and throbbed. It was hard to think of much else. So she sat there, staring at her foot, and wondering what was going to happen to her. If the bones would really take as long to heal as Daryl said they would.

Over time, the night grew longer, and Judy started wondering if they would heal _at all_. If the break was set right. If she'd be able to run again.

Daryl did his best with it—of course. Splinted the injury, for her. Bound it tight with torn-up sheets from the farmhouse. Ones out of an old chest that smelled like cedar.

And he'd been so goddamned _annoying_ when he did it. None of these fears occurred to her right then—when he was fussing over her like she was a little kid:

"Now this ain't as good as a cast," he'd said, "But it's the best I can do. So you _stay off_ this. You hear me?"

"_Yes_, Daryl."

"I'm _serious_, Jude."

"_I know_."

And she'd rolled her eyes at him. Her ankle hurt like hell, and getting lectured wasn't exactly making her feel any better.

And just then, she'd wondered what it might be like to spend some time _alone_, for once. To _not_ have someone telling you what to do all the time. To make your own decisions.

But _now_, with the pain and the doubts and the worry clutching at her in the dark, she regretted thinking anything of the kind. Cursed herself for ever wishing him gone.

Because she didn't know what might happen. Every time he left her alone, part of her was frightened he wouldn't make it back, again.

So Judy settled in next to Daryl, then. Burrowed closer to his side than she usually did—right up against him, so she could feel the warmth from his back on her face. So she could smell the familiar scent of the sweat in his hair.

And she listened to him breathing until she drifted off into a light and restless sleep.

* * *

Daryl was gone for hours the next morning. From sunrise until almost noon. And Judith waited there in the hayloft for him, with her aching foot for company.

Finally, the barn door swung open. She leaned over the edge of her perch to see. And there he was.

Judith smiled down to him.

"Daryl."

He nodded to her. Had his bag slung over his shoulder, and Judy could see there was a lot more stuffed in there than there was when he left.

When Daryl got to the top of the ladder, he slid the thing across the platform, to her.

"It's Christmas-in-July, kid. Or whatever month it is, now."

And Judith didn't really know what Daryl meant about July—so she shrugged it off. He couldn't always keep track of what she knew about the old world, and what she didn't. But the main concern was that he'd _brought_ her stuff. She eagerly dug into the bag.

The first thing Judy pulled out was a thick, clothbound library book. The call number was peeling a little on the spine, but it was in pretty good shape, otherwise.

She looked at the title, and lit up. _Les Miserables_. She'd asked him for it—and he'd followed through. She told him the title over and over and over again—to make absolutely _sure_ he'd get it right.

And Daryl—he was watching her inspecting the cover.

"That book is a fucking _doorstop_," he said, "Ain't you in enough pain already?"

"I wanna read it," she said. And it was true—she had since she first heard someone talking about it. It seemed like something from a fantasy world. A story about a vast city—_full_ of people—lying over the ocean, centuries and centuries ago.

Daryl gave her a look, and shrugged. Judy dug further into the bag.

There were knitting needles. Yarn. A few books with instructions. She piled it all on her lap, and laughed out loud.

"Daryl—_really?_"

"Gotta have somethin' to do, right? Them things were in the cedar chest at the farmhouse."

She sniffed the yarn. It was perfumed full through with the scent of the wood.

And there was more. A collection of Sudoku. A rubik's cube. A goddamn _yoyo_.

She looped the string around her finger, and let the yoyo dangle. It slowly rolled out onto the hayloft floor.

And she was grinning. Forgot about the pain in her foot, for a while.

"_God_, Daryl—do you even know how to _work_ one of these things?"

"No fucking _idea_," he said, "But you got eight weeks or so to figure it out."

* * *

Judy stayed up late that night. Wasted the battery on her LED flashlight, reading.

And sometime in the late hours, a movement caught the corner of her eye. She spun towards it. Dropped her book, and whipped the flashlight around—hunting for the shape in the dark.

The light spilled over the rough wood as she trained the thing over the barn walls. And she saw it. A flutter of wings.

An owl. A large, beautiful barn owl. She _thought_ she'd heard some sounds like they made—hissing screeches. Sounds that were nothing like rats or squirrels.

Judy watched the bird settle down on one of the rafters, way over on the other side of the barn—near the roof. And she got the flashlight right on it, then, and the pale feathers glowed against the dark. It turned its head to look at her. Then it disappeared into a little, sheltered space up under the roof.

It must have a nest, up there.

She waited a while, looking up into the dark. Listened to the crickets outside. The life-filled quiet of the nighttime air. Eventually, the bird popped its head out again. And Judy smiled at it. Watched it soar across the barn and out a little opening at the peak of the roof.

And she heard Daryl moving, somewhere behind her. He was awake.

"How's the book?" he asked. She turned, and saw he was leaning on his pillow. Looking over at _Les Miserable_s, resting there in her lap.

"I like Jean Valjean," she said. And Daryl rolled onto his side—face half-lit by her flashlight. Propped up his head with his hand.

"Who's he? Uh, it is _he, _right? … it's a guy's name?"

Judy shook her head at him. Giggled.

"Yeah, Daryl, it's a guy's name. And he… well, it's a long story."

He got that light in his eyes he sometimes had. Looked to the book, again. All those pages.

"Yeah," he said, "I bet."

Then he rolled over, again—away from her, and settled in to sleep.

And Judy—she turned back to her book. They'd always read together. _Always_. But some of the things she'd been choosing lately—he just wasn't _interested_ in them. They were getting thicker, and heavier. And he'd put up with it, until now. But the Hugo… he just wouldn't do it.

She picked up her book. Started reading again. And it hurt her to know it was the first journey she'd take completely on her own.

* * *

There were heavy rain showers for a good part of that summer. Judy sheltered in her little roost, and worked on her knitting. The instruction booklet suggested she try making a potholder. Once Judith realized what a potholder _was_, she thought the idea was ludicrous.

But she did what the book said.

And she didn't want to stop there, so the potholder became a scarf. And the scarf was getting a bit too long to be useful for anything. Over the weeks, she wrapped the end around the hayloft railing—like bunting. And the knit changed colors in places—whenever she ran out of yarn, and switched to whatever new skein Daryl had scared up for her.

And that giant potholder was ugly as sin—she knew it. It was sloppy work. But Judy didn't care. That wasn't the point of the thing. No one was going to hold pots with it—it was just something to _do_.

Sometimes she thought about what would happen with that knitting. How it would just keep hanging there, on the railing, for years after she and Daryl were long gone.

And on_ this _morning, she listened to the pouring rain, and added another sedimentary layer to the scarf. The yarn was a bright turquoise, now.

And Daryl was off somewhere, hunting for food—like he was most mornings that summer.

He left that leather vest of his hanging on the banister—draped over a bit of the potholder. He forgot to put the thing on, maybe. Or decided not to take it out in the pouring rain—though it was so worn and rumpled by now there'd be no real _point_ in that.

She hadn't really ever been alone with that thing, before—so she spent some time really looking at it. At the wings on its back. She'd always, always loved them. And Judy seemed to remember someone calling them angel's wings, one time when she was really little.

But she didn't like that. Didn't think it was quite right.

They were more like the owl's wings. Or some other bird of prey.

* * *

Dusk was falling before Daryl came back, that day—soaked through to the skin with rain. It wasn't easy hunting for food in this sort of weather, and he was tired.

He stood out in the tall grass. Felt the rain running down his face, and looked over at the barn. It had been home for a few weeks, now. They'd stayed here longer than they'd stayed pretty much _anywhere_. After this long on the road, it felt strange for him to come back to the same spot each night.

And as he stood there on the slope of the hill, looking down at their shelter, he saw Judy's flashlight glowing faintly through the slats of the wood. Just a hint of a shimmer of light.

Judy must be reading. Or knitting. Making arrows. That little girl was always doing _something_.

He shifted the string of squirrels hanging over his shoulder, and headed up to the barn to see her.

* * *

Time passed for the two of them. And throughout that summer, Judy spent hours watching the owl. She started getting used to its movements. It'd fly out at dusk, and bring back mice and voles and other little things from the overgrown fields outside. Fields that were so thick with saplings they'd eventually grow into forests.

She'd watch the bird, at night, when it flew out of the barn. And then she'd sit up with her book, and wait for it to come back again.

And she loved it. The fluttering motion of its wings was beautiful in the dark. Pale and soft and very, very quiet.

* * *

"_Careful_, kid."

Daryl had her standing up—she had crutches he'd brought her from some town, but he wasn't letting her try them out, yet.

Today, he was just trying to walk her around the hayloft. Wanted to get her moving so she wouldn't fall too far out of condition. He had his arm slung around her, and was holding her up as carefully as he could.

"Stay away from the edge," he said, "Come on. Lean on me—lean on me."

She tried to push him away, then, but he wouldn't budge.

"Daryl, _God_, I ain't gonna _fall_ _out of the_ _hayloft_."

He stopped in place.

"That's right," he said, "'Cause you ain't gonna go near the _edge_."

She stared at him. He still wasn't moving.

"I got all day, Jude."

She rolled her eyes, and let out a breath.

"_Fine_."

"Not quite time to get you usin' those crutches, yet. Those ain't safe up here, anyway. We'll get you down in the barn to do that."

He leaned in. Looked her sternly in the face, and pressed on:

"Now remember—you be _careful_ when I ain't here. It's damned easy to fall. Can happen in an instant—before you even know what hit you."

* * *

The second month went better than the first, for Judith. Her foot wasn't really hurting, anymore. Daryl didn't want her to put her weight on it, yet, but she knew with growing relief it was getting better.

She spent her days like she had been—reading, knitting, and waiting for Daryl to come back to her. Whenever he did, she'd try to count the arrows in his quiver. Wanted to see if he'd used any while he was out—and if so, how many. If it seemed like he'd only been hunting, or if he'd had to fight.

And at night, she'd watch the owl while she drifted off to sleep.

So the summer started to pass away. Judith never figured out how to use that yoyo.

And one August morning, Daryl _didn't_ go out hunting. He woke up, and got himself ready. Picked up his crossbow, like always, but he didn't head for the ladder.

Instead, he came over to her, and held the thing out for her to take. She stared at it, a moment, then looked up at him.

"Hey Judy," he said, "Wanna try and shoot this?"

* * *

Up in that hayloft, Judy started to think a lot about everything she'd read with Daryl. Started thinking of all the stories he'd told her, over the years—about his past, and about her family. And it gave her an idea, with all this time to kill.

So she asked Daryl to bring her a notebook. Asked for some pencils. And once he brought them, she sharpened them with her carving knife. Inspected the fine points, and laid them out in a row on the floor. She lined them up, there, next to a row of arrows she'd made for the crossbow.

And she picked one of those pencils up. Held it in her hand, a moment. Thought about the owl in the rafters, up above. Thought of its nest—of how many babies there might be up there, and when they might start learning to fly.

And then—for the first time—Judith leaned in over the notebook, and started writing a story of her own.

* * *

After a few lessons, Judith was getting the hang of the basics of that crossbow. It was hard for her to load it—Daryl was a lot stronger than her, and he did it a lot faster than she did. And it was harder to aim than a gun. It was heavier. Took a lot of getting used to.

But she kept trying. She'd been raised by a Dixon, after all, and no one had ever told her it was alright to give up.

By the end of the second week, there were dozens of arrows buried in the barn wall—lined up in a row, across from the hayloft.

* * *

One morning—early, so the sun hadn't even risen, yet—Judy tried to stand up on her own. And she could do it. She gingerly put her weight on her foot, and it held. And Daryl smiled at her.

"Welcome back," he said.

And he walked her around the hayloft, a bit. Stood beside her, ready to catch her if she fell. But it was alright. She was alright.

The light had just barely started to creep into the barn from outside when a flutter of wings caught their attention. Daryl turned, and watched the owl fly up into the rafters, above.

He nodded to the crossbow.

"I think you're ready," he whispered, "Go on—try and shoot it."

But she looked down, then.

"No, Daryl—No… I don't wanna kill it."

He gave her a long look. Touched her shoulder. After a moment, he nodded.

"Ok, kid. That's ok. You don't gotta."


	7. Steven

_I'm sorry it's been so long since I've updated-I've been quite ill. But I am particularly pleased with this chapter. And I hope you enjoy it, too. It's good to be back._

* * *

_Steven_

Judy turned to the last page of her novel, and forgot about everything else. She was sitting under an apple tree—one at the edge of an abandoned orchard.

Her mind was somewhere else entirely. At the very end, this book was getting really, _really_ good:

_And how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and he asked me would I say yes to say yes my mountain flower –_

"Hey, Judy."

–_first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will—_

Daryl snapped his fingers in front of her face.

"Judy? You with me?"

Judy leaned her head back against the apple tree. Let out a sharp sigh. She never did read the end of that last line.

She looked up at Daryl.

"_What_?"

"You got that extra flashlight?"

He was talking about one they'd found—one that still worked—and that she'd stashed away with the rest of her stuff. Things like that flashlight were getting really rare—so it was valuable. And Daryl wanted to use it to trade, now that they'd run into another group on the road.

That other group was alright. They were good people— thank God. She'd felt ok pretty much ignoring them and reading her book while Daryl talked things over with the adults.

It was just a family, really—a mom and dad and a few kids. One of the boys was about her age. She saw him milling around the road before she started reading—but he seemed to have wandered off somewhere, since then.

Daryl cleared his throat, and Judy realized her mind was wandering, again. He was standing there, staring at her.

"_Flashlight_, kid?"

"Yeah—in my bag. I'll get it."

She dropped her book on the ground. The ending was ruined now, anyway. So she gave it up, and started rooting through her bag—tossing stuff out on the grass until she found the thing, way down at the bottom.

She turned back to Daryl—and in that moment, a baseball landed on the grass in front of her. A shadow bounded over after it, and one of the kids almost plowed into her, then—about an inch away from stepping on her hand. A little girl, playing catch with her brothers. Running around. Not paying attention.

The girl looked at her, shyly, and darted off again without a word—her pigtail braids bouncing on her head. Judy watched her go. Hopped up, and wandered over to where Daryl was standing—chatting something over with the kids' parents.

"Here," she said, handing the flashlight over.

"Thanks, Jude."

And Daryl—he smiled at her. Reached out, and ruffled her hair. It was pulled up in a French braid, but it was messy. There were loose strands all over, and he brushed them back with his palm—like she was still a little kid.

She stood there at Daryl's side, as patiently as she could. Listened to the adults talking. And talking. And _talking_. A long interchange about what they'd seen on the road. Judith kicked at the dirt, and the voices droned on.

This was clearly going to take a while.

"Daryl, can I go pick some apples while you're… doin' stuff?"

He nodded to her, without a word. So she bolted off—grabbed one of the smaller bags, and rushed headlong into the orchard. As she found herself surrounded by trees, she heard him calling after her.

"You stay _close_, you hear?"

And that made her grin as she dove headlong into the orchard—into the mess of close branches. She felt giggles welling up from inside—just spilling over until she was laughing out loud, about nothing in particular. And she didn't turn back to Daryl as she bolted along. Just shouted out behind her as she ran.

"_Yes, Mom!_"

* * *

As Daryl watched Judy disappear into the orchard, he squinted against the afternoon sun. It was glaring on the apple trees—on the leaves still clinging to their gnarled branches—even this late in the fall. It glowed on Judith's braided hair. Some dark strands of that hair flew out behind her while she ran between the trees.

Her girlish laugh hung in the air after she vanished from sight. And as always, it sounded like the birds, to him.

She was sixteen years old, now. Daryl could hardly believe it had _been_ so long. And she was looking more and more like her mama every year. Lanky and slender—nearly as tall as _he_ was, now. She only had about an inch to go before she'd match him.

Daryl could sense how excited Judith was about that. She wanted to reach his height. So she'd taken to making him stand still on level ground, and measuring herself against his back. And he liked that. Wasn't entirely sure _why_, but he did. It seemed funny, to him. So he'd stand there for her, patiently enough, and wait until she was finished.

She tried it again this morning, when they woke up together—even though only about a week had gone by since the _last_ time. He couldn't help but chuckle when she pulled him over by the shoulders, and made him stand there for her, again. She was _that_ eager to catch up to him, at last.

But even now, she still hadn't quite made it, yet.

When Daryl was little, and his mother was still alive, she'd mark his height against a door jamb in the kitchen. There was a row of pencil marks, there on the paint—one for each of his birthdays. She'd make him stand against the door, and she'd lean up over him and mark the spot.

But Judy—Judy never had a house, or a mother, or a door.

All she had to measure by was him.

* * *

Judy pushed her way through the underbrush—the grass was tall and saplings had taken root around the larger trees. They crowded against her legs as she moved along.

The orchard had gone wild. Whoever tended to it was long, long gone.

Most of the apples had fallen to the ground, this late in the year. Half rotten and eaten by animals. But there were still a couple fresh ones hanging on the branches—crisp and sweet.

And Judy stood in the orchard grass, and felt the afternoon sun, warm on her shoulders. Watched the sun slowly settling into the west, like it always did.

She watched it sink lower in the sky, and thought about the journey she and Daryl were taking. For the first time, they'd been traveling westward—just like that sun. They'd gone up north to New England and down south to Georgia so many times, they decided they should try something different. So they went out across country. Took their time. Had been at it for a good six months. By now, they'd made it to some wild spot in the middle of Michigan.

If they kept going—if it was safe, and they walked far enough—they'd reach the Pacific Ocean. She listened to the wind in the leaves all around the orchard, and thought it must sound a bit like the tide flowing in.

Judy wanted to see that. Every night, she'd lie awake, listening to Daryl breathing, and she'd think about what the waves might sound like when they got there.

It was something to look forward to.

And in the orchard, Judith ducked under some tangled branches—two trees that had grown together over the years. A strand of her hair caught in them, and tugged at her.

She heard the noise while she was unwinding the strands from around the branch. Something rustling, right near her. Just a few yards away. She yanked her hair loose, and darted up on her heels.

There was a shape. A shape in the trees.

Something stepped out at her. She held her breath, and dropped her hand to her holster.

A boy stepped out. _The_ boy—the one about her age, who was with that other family. Who had slipped off somewhere while his parents were talking to Daryl.

Looked like that somewhere had been here.

He looked at her—eyes wide. Clearly a little surprised to find her in the trees.

"Hi," that boy said.

Her hand loosened on the handle of the python, and she stared at him.

"Uh… hi."

* * *

Daryl finished up with the other group—trading with them. Talking over what to expect a ways down the road. And he wandered over to the apple tree where Judy had been reading—before she ran off into the orchard. And the breeze flowed over his face. It was a warm day in the late October. The sun was low and golden in the sky.

She'd left her stuff on the ground—scattered everywhere from when she was hunting through her stuff for that flashlight.

Daryl chuckled to himself. That kid carried her life on her back—and she _still_ managed to make a mess.

He picked her book up out of the grass—Judy just left it there, face-down on the ground. It was another of those giant fucking cinderblocks. _Ulysses_. She read so _many_ things like that. He didn't even bother to check what they were, anymore. _Wuthering Heights_. _Anna Karenina_. _Lady Chatterly's Lover_. And those titles were just words, to Daryl. Most of those books, he didn't have the first _clue_ what they were about. Didn't really _want_ to know.

It was Judy's thing.

Sometimes she tried to describe the stories, and usually those stories just seemed like a laundry list of names, to Daryl—a slew of people who spent most of their time falling in love and dying.

Girl books. That's what Merle would've called them, when he was a little kid.

He smoothed the pages where they'd gotten rumpled on the grass, closed the book, and slipped it back into her bag.

* * *

The boy handed Judy an apple. He'd just pulled it off the branch on the tree closest to them. She paused a moment, and took it.

She bit into the thing, and it was good. Fresh, and crisp, and sweet.

They didn't say much. Just fell into step—wandered the orchard, together. He didn't stand too close to her. Made it a point not to.

After a while, they were far enough apart that he ended up completely on the other side of a row of trees. She was on the left, he was on the right, and the gnarled old trunks made a sort of fence between them.

And the two of them searched the branches for more apples. Ones that were still good. Stepped over piles of them on the ground—half rotten. The too-sweet smell clung in the air. Mixed with the cool, autumn breeze.

She could see the boy's shape on the other side of the branches—in the harsh, low sun, he was just a silhouette, outlined in winking shots of gold.

And she stopped in place—saw something. Right there, on one of the branches—the one standing right between the two of them. There was an apple there—a nice red one. The boy reached for it. And Judy thought of what she'd read, just then:

_As well him as another._

So Judy looked at the boy through the leaves, and asked him a question:

"Would you like to kiss me?"

* * *

Daryl slowly put Judith's things back into her bag. He didn't make a habit of going through her stuff, but he didn't want it scattered out in the _grass_ like that.

One of the things he picked up was a spiral bound notebook—one of the ones she'd been asking him to get for her, the past year or so. She wrote in those. Didn't really share what she was writing. And Daryl—he wasn't one to pry.

But it fell open as he picked it up. Something fluttered onto the grass. A matted, old tail feather. It didn't look very good. Not the sort of thing you'd think someone would keep. But he slipped it back into the page, where it had come from.

And he saw what she'd written there. Pretty soon, he realized it was a short story. And his eyes immediately settled on the _title_ to that story:

_Judy Kills The Chupacabra_

He smiled to himself. Ran a finger over the page. It was a few pages long. She'd illustrated it, along the side of the text.

In the margins of those faded, college-ruled pages, she hunted his demon dog, and killed it.

* * *

When Judith asked him the question, the boy's hand froze in place—hovering right over the apple on the branch. Their eyes met through the leaves, and he blurted out an answer:

"Yes."

But he lost his nerve. Couldn't keep looking at her. Dropped his face down to the ground. Shook his head like he was trying to clear it. Then he looked back up at her, again.

"Uh—wait," he said, "_What?"_

She spoke more slowly, this time.

"Would you like to _kiss me?"_

Judith started walking through the orchard, again—fast—and the boy struggled to keep up with her.

"Uhm…" he stammered, "… _why?_"

She smiled.

"… isn't it _obvious?_"

"… no."

"Well… 'cause I _want_ you to kiss me… don't _you_ wanna kiss me?"

"_No_—I mean, _yes_… I…"

He trailed off, and she filled the silence.

"You ever kiss someone before?"

He shrugged. Looked down, again.

"Just—just my little sister… and my mom…"

"Well… _I_ ain't never kissed nobody._ Nobody_. Not that I remember, anyway—maybe when I was real little… I dunno."

"You never kiss _your_ mom?"

Judy didn't say anything, and she could tell the boy realized his mistake.

"Sorry," he said.

They were quiet for a while. Just wandered in the trees. The grass rustled around their legs, and the sun softened a little in the sky.

"I don't want you to kiss me like you kiss your mom," she said, "I want you to _really_ kiss me. _Really_… you know?"

Silence, for a while. Eventually, Judy spoke up, again.

"… you know how to do it, right?"

"Of _course_."

"You sure?"

She ducked under the low-lying branches, then. Joined him on his side of the trees. He stepped back a little, and watched her.

"Cause we're out here by ourselves," she said, "No one's comin' for a while…"

And Judith reached up into her hair. Pulled the pins out, and the elastic band. Stuffed them in her pocket. And then she moved her fingers into the braids. Pulled them apart. Her hair fluttered down around her shoulders. Spilled out softly over her sweater.

And the boy—he reached out, then. Stepped closer. She saw what he looked like, then—a little more clearly than she had before. He wasn't handsome. In the time before the walkers came, most girls would've laughed at his gawkish body—at his face. He hadn't grown into it, yet. His nose was big, and he had a bit of an overbite. A bit too much acne on his forehead, and chin.

But Judy didn't notice. All that meant nothing to her.

She just looked at his green eyes, then. The freckles scattered across his face.

And he slowly dipped his hands into her hair. Stroked the loose waves—reaching into them like a pool of water. She pressed in close, and felt his breath on her face—hot and faltering. She caught the scent of the apples they'd been eating, there.

And he took her face in hands, timidly—cupped her jaw. Leaned in, and kissed her.

* * *

Daryl came across Judy's old scarf, as he went through her things. The one she'd had since she was a toddler. The handmade one.

And after seeing that, he didn't really feel like collecting everything else, right away. He settled down into the grass beside her bag. Leaned against the apple tree, there. Held the scarf, and looked it over. Played with the fringe, a bit, and the pilled, worn fibers.

Once, it had just been a long skein of yarn. Shapeless. Nothing. It took work to weave those strings together—and every pull of the knitting needles was still _there_, somehow—preserved in the scarf. The tension of each knitted stitch had been pulled into place, long ago—and the hands that did it were still _there_, in what they'd made. In the scarf. In its decorative, knitted chains.

He held it in his hands. Thought of pressing it against his face—trying to see if it still smelled like anything. But he didn't. There was no place for that kind of thing, in this world.

So he folded it back into Judith's bag, after a moment, and let it go.

* * *

To Judy, the boy's lips were sweet. They were soft, too. Warm.

So she didn't even think as she pressed them open with her tongue—it was all fresh and clean like the apples.

She had her hands on the back of his neck, then. Ran them against his hair. And she pulled him in—a bit too hard. Their teeth glanced together, and she shifted her head in place to try again.

He had her at a bad angle. Twisted her neck a bit too hard to the side. They struggled some, then—trying to find the right rhythm. Eventually, he almost pulled away from her. But Judy grabbed him by the shoulders. Pressed forward. She was determined.

Judith was raised by a Dixon, and no one have ever told her it was ok to give up.

* * *

Daryl had almost everything packed back into Judy's bag, by now. Above the apple trees, the cloudy sky was stained with purples and reds.

The sun was going down, and it was getting dark.

The last thing he stashed away was Judith's .22. Her old revolver—the one that belonged to Carl, once. He rolled out the cylinder. He knew there were barely any bullets left for the thing—and she'd loaded them all into the gun, rather than carrying them loose. He counted them in the chambers, at a glance. Four.

That was it. With how hard it had been to find bullets, lately, he wasn't sure he'd be able to scrounge up any more for her. She had more for her .357, than for the .22, but those wouldn't last, either.

Daryl shook his head. Tried to shrug off thoughts of all that. Rolled the cylinder back into place, and tucked the thing securely into its pocket. Zipped it shut, and tried not to think about it, anymore.

And the evening sounds moved out over him. The wind in the autumn leaves. The rustling of the yellowed grass. The voices from that other group—the little family. Children, laughing—running around together, playing ball.

And Daryl paused. Sensed something. It wasn't quite sundown, yet—but it was quiet. The late afternoon birds weren't singing, anymore.

It was the first sign that something was wrong.

* * *

Eventually, Judith and the boy found their rhythm. She forgot about the trees. Forgot about Daryl. Forgot about everything but that boy. His lips.

And she found herself slipping her hand under his shirt. Gripping at the side of his torso, and pulling him against her. They fell back against the apple tree, then, and he had one of his hands on the side of her face. And the other was running down her neck. It trailed on the flutter of her pulse. Along her collar bone. She sighed against the touch. Pushed close to his skin. Breathed in his sweat.

They were sliding down the trunk—tangled together, and she could feel the press of his chest against her. She clutched at him and pulled him down—and soon they were swallowed whole by the tall grass. Hidden in it—surrounded on all sides by the long stalks. The gold sky was shot through with black branches, up above them both.

His hands were on her, then—on her sides, then her hips. His fingers caught in something, and she looked down. The golden chain, wrapped around her belt loop—her mama's locket. He pulled on it, and the golden heart fell into his hand.

She took it away from him. Pushed it back into her pocket, and pressed him into another kiss.

And Judith heard a noise. Sensed a movement. Looked to the side just in time to see the dead hands reaching for her.

She pushed the boy away, and screamed.

Both of them bolted upright—spun to face the shape in the trees. The walker was only a few feet away. And there were more—many, many more. _Dozens_ of shapes—moving. Coming right at them.

Judy pushed the boy behind her with one hand, and drew her hunting knife with the other.

The dead thing tried to grab her, then. Lurched forward, and snarled. But Judy was fast, and darted out of its grip. Struck from the side—slammed her knife into its skull, as hard as she could.

As she yanked it out, the black blood splattered on her sweater. Her hair tangled on her face.

"Come _on_!" the boy shouted.

They ran through the trees—back towards their parents. The sky was getting dark, and it was hard to see in the close press of the branches.

In the distance, she heard gunshots. Their families were fighting them, too.

And there were dead right behind her, and that boy. She had no idea how many.

But it couldn't be more than a quarter mile back to the road. Judy felt her breath running ragged in her throat. Clutched to her knife. The boy was at her back. A few feet behind. And that was bad.

She didn't know if they'd get him.

But Judith didn't look. Daryl always taught her not to look—_never_ to turn back. Not when the geeks were chasing you. Not when someone died. Not _ever_.

And she pushed through the brush and spilled out into the roadside, and the open air. She heard Daryl's voice then—achingly familiar, and shouting her name.

"_JUDY! JUDY!_"

A woman's voice mingled with it—and she knew it was the boy's mother.

"_STEVEN!_"

Judy spun around, then—forgot Daryl's warnings, and turned to look back. To see if Steven was still there.

Her heart lurched in her chest. He was there, but he wasn't _alone_. There was a walker right on top of them. It was about to grab him.

And Judith forgot everything she'd ever been taught, and froze in place.

In that moment, an arrow pierced the dead skull, and it fell. So Judy spun around, again, and saw Daryl, there. Right next to her.

And Daryl had Judy by the wrist in an instant. Handed her her bag, and they were off. She strained her neck. Steven was somewhere behind them. She caught sight of him, once. His mother had him by the hand, and was pulling him away—off in the other direction from where Daryl was headed.

Daryl tugged her through the trees on the other side of the road—into the tall brush. She strained a moment to look back, and saw the shapes of the walkers, and the family running from them.

Then the trees swallowed her and Daryl. The branches wrapped all around them as they ran, and it was dark. The boy and his brothers and sister and parents vanished in an instant.

Judith never saw any of them ever again.

* * *

An hour later, Daryl sat with Judith out on another rural road. Up on a hill. He'd scanned the horizon, from there—and it looked like they were safe.

_Judith_, though. She was quiet. Sitting there on a fallen log, with her hands in her lap.

She sat like that a long time. Then she pulled her bobby pins and elastic band out of her pocket, and started doing up her hair. Daryl had no idea why she'd let it down.

But he could tell she was upset. And somehow, he didn't think he should ask her why. He figured she must be worried about those other people—the little family. So he leaned over her.

"Hey," he said.

She looked up. Her eyes looked so large in the dark—wide and bright against her pale skin. And he tried to comfort her:

"Don't worry 'bout those others, kid. They had a good head start—must've got out just _fine_."

"Yeah," Judy said, pinning the last of her braids in place.

And then she sighed.


	8. The Sea: Part One

_Here we are: the antepenultimate chapter of The Book of Judith. And it's my first two-parter, pretty much ever. I've spent a long time working it out just right. Thanks for sticking this far with me—just a little more to go._

* * *

_The Sea: Part One_

The warm breeze rushed over Judy's face—fresh and soft through the thick curtain of pine branches that surrounded her. And Daryl was right at her side—like always. She could hear him taking in a deep breath. Then he stopped, and nudged her shoulder.

"Hey—you _smell that_, Jude?"

"Yeah," she said, sniffing at the air, "… smells _weird_."

"That's salt—from the water."

"… from the ocean?"

He nodded, and she found herself smiling. A giddy thrill ran through her.

"_Really?_ You sayin' we're _that_ close?"

"That's right, kid."

And he smiled back—threw her that awkward grin he had. The one he barely ever used. Seeing it was one of her favorite things in the whole world.

He gestured up into the trees—where ground swelled up into a sharp rise:

"It's gotta be somewhere just over the next ridge."

That felt so _strange_ to her—like it couldn't possibly be true. This place felt like part of the deep forest—_nothing _like she'd imagined a shoreline would be. The two of them were surrounded by tall, beautiful pines. The draping branches seemed almost impossibly green in the rich, foggy air.

They'd made it to Oregon, at long, long last—and Judy was seventeen years old, now. It'd taken them nearly two years to walk across the country. But they'd _made_ it. And now—now they were almost at the end of their long journey.

She eagerly rushed forward. Pulled herself up over the rocks of that landrise. Got her hands dirty on last year's fallen leaves. On the soft soil, and the roots.

When she got to the top, she'd be able to see the coast.

Daryl followed her. Before she knew it, they were standing at the top in a tangle of tall brush. Too thick to see through.

He made to push past it, and move on to whatever was on the other side.

But Judy stopped him. Grabbed his arm.

"Wait, Daryl—_listen_."

"What?"

"_Shh_—_listen_."

She could hear it. The soft sound of water rolling gently over the shore.

Daryl made to move, but she pulled at his arm, again. Didn't let go.

"Wait a little. Just listen to it, with me."

And Daryl—he shrugged. Smirked a bit, and waited. Just like she asked him to. And Judith could tell he thought she was being kind of weird, again. But he was used to indulging her.

After a moment, she spoke over the sound of the rushing waves:

"_The Sea! Alas! I have not yet beheld it. But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing, which it is perilous to stir. Alas! for the gulls. No peace shall I have again under beech or under elm._"

"Which of them books you get _that_ one from?"

"_Lord of the Rings_."

Daryl just shook his head.

"You even _understand_ half the stuff you read?"

"Not really… but that's ok. I kinda _like_ not understandin' things…"

"… you're a _weird_ little girl, you know that?"

"Yeah. I do."

They looked at each other, and laughed.

* * *

The moment Daryl stepped through that tall brush, the ocean wind hit him full across the face.

And it was all _there_, in front of him. Like nothing he'd ever seen before. The sea. The sand. The open sky moving on and on forever into the west.

When Judith came up behind him, he heard her whisper to herself:

"_Wow_…"

Daryl didn't turn to look at her. Looked out at the waves, instead. They were steel grey, with the warm spring fog churning over them. He just kept staring out into all that.

But his hand drifted to her shoulder, and he squeezed it.

* * *

When he made it down to the shoreline, Daryl pulled off his boots. Went out in the sand. Really focused on the feel of it under his feet. _All_ of it—the strings of seaweed. The small rocks. The broken shells.

And then he went out. Stood in the Pacific water up to his ankles. Let it rush in swells up over his shins—soaking his pants legs and chilling his feet with the cold.

He lost himself in it—in the feeling of the water spilling over him—until Judy came running up from behind.

"Hey, Daryl?"

Her voice snapped him back into reality. She wanted to show him something, probably. That kid always loved to show him things.

But he just kept looking out into the water.

"Gimme a minute, kid. Just… just hang on a bit."

* * *

So Judy left Daryl alone for a while. Sat back out against the cliffside—under the shelter of the coastal pines clinging to the rockface. Above her, some hulking old houses clung to the cliffs. Beach houses, from the time when people would come here on vacation. The buildings cast shadows over the sand, where she sat, even in the overcast light.

And she listened to the waves. The sound never _ended_. It'd been rolling along for centuries. Would keep doing it forever. It'd never stop.

At first, she spent some time playing with the pebbles and seashells—like she would have when she was just a little kid. She'd never really had a chance to look at shells, before, so she wanted to inspect them as carefully as she could. She sifted through them. Put a few of the prettiest out in a row. Counted them like she'd count her bullets, way back when she was ten years old.

And later, she got her notebook out. Because she wanted to remember _everything_. So tried to draw the birds. The water. Tried to draw Daryl, standing out in the water, with his feet in the surf.

But the damn truth was she was no _good_ at it. Drawing. Couldn't get _anything_ to look right. So she gave up on that. Turned a page—started over. Decided to write it all down, instead.

_Daryl never saw the ocean before. He told me that way back when we got the idea to come out here. He grew up in the woods. Just round the southern edge of the Appalachian hills. And he's out in the water right now, and I can only see his back. That vest he wears. He's _always_ got that vest on. You can see the wings on it, even from way out under the cliffs…_

She went on and on from there. The words just rolled out onto the page. _This_ she could do. _This_ was easy.

She lost track of time. Had no idea how long she was writing before she sensed a movement on the beach. Daryl, walking over to her in his bare feet—sand caked on his ankles, his boots in one hand, and the ocean at his back.

He sat down with her on the sand. Wrapped his arms around his knees. Turned his eyes up towards the sky. Judy followed them. Saw a shape up there—a large sea bird, coasting over the beach on the wind.

She pointed.

"Daryl—look at that _bird_. The really big one."

"Yeah, I see it. Some kinda giant-ass seagull."

"No—I think… I think it's an _albatross_."

"Huh. How you know that?"

"There were pictures in one of my poetry books."

He turned to her. Was about to say something. But he cut himself short.

He'd noticed something. Raised his hand to warn her. Judy froze in place.

In that moment, a gunshot shattered the silence, and the albatross fell from the sky. Landed in a tangled pile on the sand. The other birds shouted and scattered.

And then there was laughter. Men's voices. Up on the bluffs. The sound echoed on the rocks, and the open air:

"Holy fucking _shit_, Bill! You shot that shit right in the fucking _face!_"

Without saying anything to each other, Judy and Daryl both knew what they were dealing with. You got an instinct for it, over time. These guys weren't just showboating. They were trouble.

And the _sand_. The two of them had left footprints all _over_ the beach. She could see the marks everywhere—her boots. Daryl's bare feet. All it'd take was for one of those guys to notice and go investigating, and the two of them were screwed.

She leaned in to Daryl. Whispered.

"What do we _do?_"

Daryl didn't say anything. Was staring up at the bluffs. Trying to figure out how many men were up there.

So Judy pulled her python. Checked the chambers, and continued:

"If we climb the rocks… might be able to move in from the side. Take 'em out before they can get to us."

"Nah, Jude—too low on bullets for that—and they ain't _walkers_. They'll shoot the fuck _back_."

A series of bright, harsh sounds broke the quiet. More shots. Aimed for the birds out on shore. A seagull dropped onto the sand, and that laughter started up again.

Judy started feeling really nervous.

"_Daryl_…"

"C'mon, kid," he whispered. Under his breath like that, his voice sounded harsh and strained.

He grabbed his boots in one hand without stopping to put them on. Nodded towards one of the hulking old beach houses up on the rocks.

"We gotta hide—just wait 'em on out."

He made his way for the rocks. Judy followed him. The dead albatross laid out on the sand at their backs, with the wind pulling at its feathers.

* * *

Judy'd been worried about getting inside quickly and quietly—but the sliding glass doors turned out to be unlocked. They glided open silently when they tried them. Daryl stepped in first.

The house was some modernist, open-floor-plan monstrosity—the kind of building Judy couldn't really understand. The design made no _sense_. There were no corners to hide in. No places to shelter. Just wide open space. And the whole thing was completely empty. Not a scrap of furniture. It'd probably been some kind of summer home—one that wasn't being used when the shit went down. Judy stepped inside, and her footfalls echoed strangely against the bare, white walls.

The windows were draped with sheer curtains, but that was it. There was nothing else.

So when she looked, Judy could see movement out on the beach through the thin, white cotton. She drifted across the empty floor, over to the bank of glass windows that stretched over the western wall.

She pulled one curtain back, a little, and looked out. Leaned in close, and whispered:

"Daryl, come see."

Walkers—out on the beach. Nine or ten. Called by those damned idiots wasting their ammo killing _birds_. The shapes looked misty and strange through the dirty window panes.

Judy pressed her hand against the glass-smooth and cool against her palm. Most of the grime was on the other side of the window.

One of the shapes had stopped to eat the fallen albatross. Grabbed it, and paced around with the beach with the body. Held it up by one wing. The other dragged against the sand.

She sighed. There weren't many walkers around nowadays, but there was always the risk of a herd, no matter how much time had gone by since the outbreak. They always seemed to show up when you least expected it. So who _knew_ how many more were hiding off someplace, that those gunshots were calling out onto the sand.

Walkers. People. Guns. They always ruined everything.

* * *

Moments later, Daryl was leaning over her shoulder, watching the walkers milling around on the sand down below.

"We can't see shit from here," he said, gesturing in the air and turning back into the room, "Need a better vantage—I'm gonna try up in the loft."

So Daryl made his way upstairs with boots still in his hands. And Judy followed up behind him. The steps were coated with dust, and his bare feet left imprints, there.

And they found themselves in a long hallway—open to the space below on one side. The air stirred around them. There were broken windows, somewhere up here— she could feel the sea breeze on her face. Some cobwebs on the banisters swayed back and forth.

Daryl went left, down the hall—checking to make absolutely certain the upstairs rooms were clear. Judy took the right.

And each room was empty—not even a lamp or chair to be seen, let alone a walker. There was a fine coating of salt caked over the floorboards. On the walls. It mixed with the dust.

Finally, she stepped into the smallest bedroom—the last one at the end of the hall. The door was ajar, and she pushed it open.

It was empty, like the others. There was a bank of shattered windows across the western wall—open to the sea. The wind poured in through the broken holes. Over the bleached fabric of the tattered curtains, billowing against the gusts. The light flowed over the floorboards. The shards of broken glass, lying there.

The glass cracked under her boots as she moved through the room, and the old boards groaned against her weight.

She sensed Daryl at her back before she heard his footsteps. Knew he was in the hall, coming close. And just after that, she heard the boards creak a bit as he stepped into the doorway.

Later, Judith would remember every detail of what happened next.

The sounds from behind were all so _familiar_. The way he shifted his weight. The gravelly sound of his breath in the air. She'd know it all anywhere. Years and years later, she could conjure the sound if she sat still, and closed her eyes.

And in that bedroom, she was standing at the broken windows, looking out along the side of the ridge—trying to make out the shapes of the men on the bluffs. Spoke to Daryl, behind her:

"I think—I _think_ those men are gone."

Judith didn't turn around to say it. Was busy staring out into the open air.

So she heard him step forward, but she didn't see it happen.

Daryl was barefoot—so she thought he should put his boots on, because of the broken glass near the far wall. And she was about to turn to tell him that when she heard the floorboards straining under his weight.

Then they broke.

She heard the floor give way—but she didn't see it. The crisp sound of the boards splintering beneath his feet. Daryl let out a rough shout, and Judith spun around.

She could hear the wood spilling out down onto the first floor—but there was heavy dust kicked up everywhere, and she couldn't make out exactly what had happened.

But she knew it was bad.

A moment passed. The house went weirdly quiet. The ocean rolled on and on at her back, and she could hear the waves.

She was still. Felt like she couldn't move. It lasted seconds that stretched out forever.

Then she lunged forward. Screamed his name.

"_DARYL!_"

Judith pushed through the clouds of thick dust to the edge of the torn up maw in the floor. The house moaned and complained as she threw herself down against the wood. Judith clutched at the rim of the gaping hole and looked down through it.

Daryl. He was down there, covered in splintered bits of wood, and dust. He'd fallen through the floor.

He was sprawled out in the wreckage—down below. His boots were there, too—scattered on their sides, next to him.


	9. The Sea: Part Two

_Just one more chapter after this. I feel compelled to tell you that I planned all of this out in December, and wrote most of it last week. So any similarities to the finale are weirdly but completely coincidental._

_Growing up hurts. It has to, or it isn't real. That's one of the things this story's about._

* * *

_The Sea: Part Two_

Sound carried in the prison, so Daryl could hear what everyone was doing. Hershel, turning on his bunk. Trying to find a comfortable position to sleep. Maggie and Glenn, clinging to each other on one of those tiny mattresses—doing the same. Beth, awake in her cell, flipping the pages of a book. Carl, off by their stash of weapons, swiftly and methodically checking their works.

All the sounds mingled together. Echoed off the concrete, and reverberated through the stale air.

And then there were Rick's footfalls, passing by Daryl's door. Down the metal stairs. Must have been heading for Carol's cell—since she was the one taking care of the baby.

So Daryl was compelled to follow along. Didn't really know why. But _both_ of them—Rick and Carol. He always found himself standing next to them, without really remembering how he'd gotten there.

Rick was already leaning over Carol's bunk when Daryl reached her doorway. He was staring down into her arms—down at where she was holding baby Judith.

"She was fussy this morning," Carol said, "But now… well, you can see—sleeping sound as anything."

Rick touched the baby's head with the tips of his fingers. Brushed at her whispy hair, then pulled away. And Carol sensed Daryl standing in the door, and looked up. Saw him there, and smiled. Bright and sunny—so her eyes crinkled at the edges, like they always used to do.

So Daryl nodded to her, and stepped into the little room. Right next to Rick—who had his arm propped up against the top bunk. And Rick leaned in towards his daughter—eyes locked firmly on the little girl.

Judith was sleeping. And somehow—Daryl didn't know how—he felt like it was ok to reach out. So he did. He brushed his fingers against her cheek. And Carol shifted on the mattress. She had a bit of knitting at her side, and one of the needles fell on the floor as she did it.

But she didn't try to pick it up. Daryl could sense her eyes on him. And he knew she was smiling, again—even though he wasn't looking at her.

And the baby—her eyes opened when he touched her. She looked right up at his face.

Carol said something to Rick then—as the baby stirred. Wriggled in her arms, and reached out for Daryl's hand:

"Oh Rick—_look_. _Rick_—she's grabbing Daryl's_ finger_."

* * *

The dust was everywhere. Daryl couldn't see.

And he didn't know what happened—not at first. He'd been standing in that bedroom—looking at Judy leaning over a bank of broken windows. And then he stepped towards her, and _then_—then it was all noise and dust.

He fell.

And now he was on the ground. Way below on the first floor. He tried to push up on his hands—but his ribs screamed against it and he lost his strength. Collapsed back onto the floorboards. Groaned.

Those ribs were broken. Who knows what else. He could taste blood on his tongue. Turned his head and spat. Hit one of his boots. Left a red streak on the leather.

And a noise from above. Judy. Judy was up there, peering down at him. The dust started to settle, and he could see the outline of her face.

"Daryl…? _Daryl?_"

The wood was creaking, still. Damned _dry rot_. Stuff must've got in the wood years and years ago—before Judy was born. And it grew and spread and ate the floor away from the inside.

And he should have _known_. Should have realized it wasn't safe up there. Everything in this shithole world was crumbling away.

He heard Judith up above. A little sob. He looked, and saw that she was right in front of the break. Both hands on the rim. The boards were creaking under her weight.

"Judy—back up," he said, wheezing against the strangling pain in his chest. That pain was spreading. It pushed hard on his lungs with a crushing weight.

And up above, Judy didn't budge.

"Judy. _Back up_. Get _away_ _from the edge_."

At that, her face disappeared.

Daryl heard her feet on the boards up above. Rushing through the hall, and down the stairs—flying to his side from above like some sort of little bird.

* * *

It seemed like Judith was born knowing she shouldn't cry—not unless something was really wrong.

She'd been such a _quiet_ baby. Slept soundly every night, and didn't give any of them much trouble. And maybe that was because they were so careful with what she needed. They always saw to her the moment she fussed, and there was always someone right there at her side—_always_. Even as she got older.

At four years old, she'd never really been alone a day in her life. An _hour_.

So this night—the second after Carl died—it took Daryl by surprise when she wouldn't sleep. She always had before—even when they lost the others.

He'd gotten her to drift off sometime around midnight—but a half hour later, she woke up wailing. Loud, uncontrollable howls that only stopped when she choked on the snot in her throat.

The sound reverberated off the walls of that damned _farmhouse_. Off the ceiling. Thank God the snow was so thick and deep—nothing could get to them in this kind of weather, no matter how loudly she screamed.

And the two of them couldn't travel in the snow—so they had to stay here. In the house where Carl died. The moment Daryl got back to the house, he went up to that room. Saw Judy with the body. So he picked her up, and brought her down into the living room. And he'd stayed with her down here ever since then.

But Carl's body was still upstairs—on the other side of the ceiling, hanging over their heads. And Daryl wasn't sure whether or not Judith understood that. But he didn't like it. In the morning, he resolved to find a way to get rid of it. Some way she wouldn't see.

For now, he tried not to think about it. Pushed it down deep so he could focus on other things.

But little Judith was just four years old. She didn't know how to _do_ that, yet. She was rattled, and confused—so she cried.

Daryl did what he could to sooth her. Tried everything he could damn well _think_ of. Talked to her. Sang a little, softly—under his breath. Nothing. Just those same, strangled sobs.

At last, he just scooped her up and pressed her head against his shoulder. Started to pace the room. Hoped the motion would do something. She'd always seemed to like it when _Carol_ did that—back when she was just a little baby.

"_Shh…_" he whispered. The boards creaked under his feet, and the shadows moved over the faded wallpaper.

It wasn't working. She clutched at his shirt with her little hands, and buried her face in his shoulder. Soaked the flannel with her tears.

Daryl was just no good for her._ Carl_ would have known what to do. The way he looked after his sister—it was like he'd been born for it.

But Carl was dead, now. That meant it was just Daryl and Judy left alive. Left alone.

So despite how unlikely it seemed—despite how little Daryl felt prepared for it, she was his, now. His responsibility. He was the only thing standing between her and that wide, empty world outside.

_He_ had to protect her. _He_ had to make sure she was safe. Right now, he had to get her to stop _crying_.

But the damned truth of it was… he didn't know how.

"_Shh…_" he whispered, turning on his heels and walking across the creaking floorboards, again:

"_Shh… shh…"_

* * *

Outside that damned beach house, Judith was crouching in some brush. Hiding from a few walkers that had made their way up onto the bluffs.

She whistled—softly. Just loud enough to draw the closest towards her. The rest didn't hear.

She waited for them. When she got to Daryl in the house, he seemed to be in pretty bad shape. But he wanted to try to move. Insisted, really. So she'd helped him up, and they went out into the sunlight.

She'd left him in the doorway. Faced the walkers alone. And that was fine—Judith knew how to take care of this. She'd counted four heads, total. Not nearly enough to pose a problem. So she raised Daryl's crossbow. Took a bead on one, and let it get right up into the bushes. And just as she knew it would, the thing got tangled up in there, trying to reach her.

She took it down. Then the second. And by then, the others were closing in. She dropped the bow and drew her knife. Closed with one and took it out fast. Then she tripped the other as it pushed in for her. It crumpled face-first on the ground, and she put her boot down on its back. Buried her knife in the nape of its neck. Yanked the blade out again, and some old blood splattered on her hands.

Breathing hard, she looked up to Daryl—resting in the doorway where she'd laid him down. He was smiling at her. _Beaming_, really.

He tried to stand, winced, and slid down onto the steps, again.

She rushed back over. Helped him up. He started limping forward, leaning most of his weight on her shoulder. His breathing was ragged.

"Little Asskicker."

"What?"

"Little Asskicker."

She looked at him.

"You killed the _fuck_ outta them things. You're _Little Asskicker_."

She nodded. Pulled him closer to her side. Tried to bear his weight. And he just kept on talking:

"… I ever tell you about how I called you that when you were—"

"_Yes_—now _hush_, Daryl."

But he didn't. Laughed, weakly, and gagged a bit on it.

"We—we forgot my boots in the house. I don't got any _shoes_ on..."

"Don't worry about that."

She could tell he wasn't breathing so good—it was all throttled and strange in his chest. And with him draped over her the way he was, Judith heard the wet, sucking sound of it in his throat.

She needed to get him to stop moving, so she could look him over.

"C'mon Daryl—let's –let's take a break, ok? You sit down here."

"Ok… Ok."

His voice was coming out in a rough whisper, then. It reminded her of her brother, in that farmhouse. When he told her to go hide from him.

When he died.

And she remembered something Daryl said a few years back. When she broke her ankle, and he fussed over her like she was a toddler all over again:

_It's damned easy to fall. Can happen in an instant—before you even know what hit you._

Judith lowered him down, then—at the cliffside, against the trunk of a coastal cypress. The water rushed on and on down below them, at his back.

* * *

One night, when Judith was six years old, a man at a settlement tried to snatch her off the back of Daryl's bike.

Daryl had his head turned for a moment—just _seconds_. Someone was trying to get through with a truck, and he was looking to the side—trying to figure out how to best avoid the thing. The whole place was packed to the gills—people trading. Tents. Other motorcycles and cars. Chaos.

So he just barely caught the motion out of the corner of his eye—turned, and saw the man trying to pick her up. She was struggling with him. He had his hand over her mouth.

Daryl wasn't really clear on what happened after that. Somehow, he was on the ground with that man—at his throat. Clutching at his collar. And Daryl beat his skull against the asphalt. Forgot he had a gun on his belt. Forgot his crossbow, and his knife. The blood splattered on his hands. His clothes.

By the time he realized what he was doing, the man was dead.

All the commotion around them had stopped. Everything was quiet. People had stepped back—there was a small ring of open air around him and the bloody mess he was clutching by the throat.

Nobody had tried to stop him. They all saw what happened, so they let him do it.

He dropped the body. It landed on the pavement with a dull thud. He looked around at the people staring at him. And he saw Judy, there, at the edge of the crowd.

One of the older women was crouching down next to her. Had her faced pressed against her chest, so she couldn't see.

The woman met his eyes. Let Judith go, then, and she ran to him. Clung to his side, and got the blood on her face.

* * *

Daryl leaned against the cypress tree. Looked up at Judith's face as she hovered over him.

"My chest… ribs… something's all fucked up inside…"

"_Shh_, Daryl. Just settle down. Just—Just rest a bit, ok?"

He nodded. She reached for his shirt. Started unbuttoning it.

"Now lemme see this..."

He closed his eyes, a moment. Felt worn out from it all. Just let her paw at him without putting up a fuss.

And she whispered his name.

"Daryl…"

He looked down at his own torso. His whole right side was purple. Swollen. There was blood pooling beneath the skin. A lot of it.

"_God_…"

She touched his ribs, and he winced hard against the pressure.

Daryl knew, then.

Hershel taught Carol some things, way back at the beginning of all this. Before they were even at the prison. And over time, she taught a bit of it to the rest of the group. So he could recognize what he thought was going on in there:

"Pneumo—pneumothor…"

_Pneumothorax_.

He coughed. Struggled to get enough air to speak up:

"Collaped _Lung_."

But there was more than that. Internal bleeding. Chills. His skin felt cold. His hands had started trembling.

He felt himself drifting.

He was going into shock. He knew it. And he knew what it meant.

"Ok," she said, leaning over. Pulling his .38 for him. Pressing it into his hand: "I'll find help. I'll get to people. Gotta be someone decent 'round here _somewhere_. You stay put and wait for me."

"No, Judy."

"But Daryl, we don't got much—"

"_No_."

She stared at him.

"_Daryl_."

He grabbed her hard by the side of the face. Pulled her down to look at him:

"Judith, you listen to me. _Judith. Listen_. I'm _done_."

She took his hand, then. Pulled it gently away from her face. Folded it into hers, and started to cry.

Daryl didn't want to see that. So he nudged her with his hand, and tried to distract her.

"Now Jude, get my bag—get my bag."

She turned to the side, and rummaged for it in the pile of stuff, there. She'd managed to carry all that _and_ him this far across the bluffs. All by herself.

She held it in her hands, and looked at Daryl, expectantly. So he pressed on:

"Judy, you take everythin' you need from in there. Pack it up with your stuff."

"… _why?"_

"You gotta leave me here, Jude."

"_What?_"

"Gotta…"

He trailed off. Felt a wave of something move through him. His vision blurred—and for a moment, he lost track of where he was.

"Daryl?"

"_That's my deer_…"

Things were hazy—distant. There were hands on his face. Someone shaking his shoulders. Calling out to him:

"Daryl! Stay with me—stay with me."

He wasn't with her. He was back in the distant past. Whispered something, from there:

"Think… think we can cut around this chewed up part…?"

* * *

When Judith was eight years old, two men tried to rob them on the road. They struck at twilight, in a patch of dense woods—when he and Judy had just parked the bike for the night.

They were surrounded by trees so thick that the sky seemed dark.

The first shot missed—and Daryl dragged Judy behind a boulder at the roadside. And he was angry as hell with himself, because the ambush took him completely by surprise.

Hiding behind the rock, he could see the outlines of the men in the brush across the road. Between them, the bike was down on its side. Lying there motionless, with their things strapped to it. It looked like some strange, hulking animal slumped over on the asphalt, and dead leaves.

Daryl had his sidearm, though. Raised the .38, and fired at the silhouettes in the shadows. He'd pushed Judy down low, against the ground, so she was out of the line of fire.

They shot back. A bullet hit the side of the rock, and some fragments blew out. Cut his cheek.

He recoiled from it, and pulled himself behind the rock.

And that was when he realized Judy wasn't there, anymore. She'd slipped away, somehow—back into the woods.

So his mind cleared, for a moment. She was safe.

But as he turned back to shoot—tried desperately to pick the shapes out in the darkness—that feeling began to fade. He knew she _wasn't_ safe. Not really. She was too _little_ to be alone. Like Sophia—she wouldn't make it out there in the woods.

If they shot him—if _he died_, she'd die, too.

So he had to live.

Most of his ammo was still on the bike. What was loaded in the gun wasn't going to last him more than another minute or two.

Daryl aimed one more time, and fired into the swelling shadows.

And as he got slow to return their shots, those men got cocky. Stepped out from the trees. The shapes had just materialized into faces when something moved behind them.

They didn't have time to turn around. Shots rang out. One—two. And they fell down, dead.

Judy was standing there behind them—gun drawn.

He looked out from behind the rock. And she saw him.

"_Daryl!_"

She dropped her gun. Bolted across the road, and was on him, then. For a moment, the world was all tangled, dark hair and little-girl hands clutching at his face.

"Daryl—are you _ok?_"

"Yeah kid," he said, pushing her gently back from him, "Yeah kid, I'm just fine."

* * *

Judith crouched over Daryl. Shook him, where he was leaning against the cypress. He was confused… drifting. She needed to get him back.

"Daryl! Daryl!"

He focused his eyes on her again.

"Daryl" she asked, "What'd you _mean_ about the chewed up—"

"You can't stay here, Jude. You gotta _go_."

"I ain't gonna _leave you_."

"You have to."

"Daryl—"

"You _have to_."

"Now open my bag. Get my stuff."

She seized his bag with both hands. Bolted upright.

"I don't fucking _care_ about our fucking _stuff_!"

She threw the thing away from them—hard and clumsy. Furious. It hit the edge of the cliff and started sliding down the rocks. One of the straps caught in a pine tree.

She shouted out into the sky, then—thin and shrill, so her voice cracked:

"_Fuck!"_

Her voice echoed back in the wide-open air.

"Judy—_quiet_," Daryl said, "Them things're _close_."

And she didn't know if he meant the walkers or the men who shot the albatross. Those men may as well have been _things_, to her. But it didn't matter what he meant. She stopped shouting. Something drained out of her, and she collapsed back at his side. Clung against him. Rested her chin on his shoulder. Whispered.

"I won't leave you. I _won't_. If I do—you'll _turn_."

"That's ok. Don't matter."

"Yes," she said, "_Yes it does_."

She took his .38 in her hand, then. Looked at him gravely.

"I can do it," she said, "I'll do it."

"No," he said, "I won't let you do that."

"But you'll—"

"I ain't gonna turn."

She felt herself getting frantic. Felt a strange tightness clutching at her throat from the inside.

"Of _course_ you will. If you _don't_, it'll just be 'cause they _ate too much of you _for it to_ happen!_"

"No, Jude. No. "

He reached over. Rooted in her bag, weakly. Pulled out her .22. The old one.

"You go. I'll use this. Won't turn."

"Daryl…"

"You take my .38. We got too many bullets to just leave it on the beach. You need 'em."

She didn't say anything. He gasped for air, again—rough and strange. The sound frightened her. It didn't seem real.

And he just continued pulling her through it—trying to keep her focused on what they needed to do.

"So look, Jude. How many—how many bullets we got in the .22?"

His hands were shaking hard, now. He couldn't roll out the cylinder.

Judy cupped his hands in hers. Pressed the thing open. Checked the chambers.

One. One left.

Of course.

Daryl chuckled, at that. And dissolved into coughs. A trail of blood trickled out of his mouth.

Judy lost her resolve.

"No, Daryl, no, I can't just—"

He grabbed her face, again—rough and clumsy. Pulled her close by the back of the neck.

"Judith," he said, "_Let me do this for you_."

"No. _No_. I'm—I'm not—I'm not _ready for you to_ _go_."

"You and me both, kid."

"_I can't live alone… I can't do it._"

He smiled.

"No way. Not you. You'll—You'll do ok…"

They both trailed off. And they were quiet. The ocean moved on and on behind him.

He pulled the .22 from her hand. She limply let him take it.

"Now don't you come back for this thing. Or for me. _Don't you come back_."

And the bottom fell out of all her fight, then. She felt herself going numb.

"Ok..."she whispered, burying her face against his neck, "Ok…"

She nestled in close to his skin. Smelled the sweat on his clothes. In his hair. She hadn't done anything like that for years and years—since she was just a toddler.

"Daryl, I—"

He cut her off. Stroked her hair, a moment. Whispered that raspy whisper, again:

"I know, sweetheart... Me, too."

She pressed her face against the crook of his neck. Into his collar bone. His skin was cold. Time had really worked down to minutes for her—if she could stay another minute, everything would be ok.

Another minute was forever.

But Daryl nudged at her.

"Judy…"

And she knew he was telling her to leave. She shook her head—didn't move.

"No. Not _yet_."

"It's gotta be now…"

So she looked up. Looked at him. His face. He looked back.

Things were pouring out of her, and she couldn't think of any way to share them. So she took his jaw in both hands, and kissed him. Pushed her lips against his. Hard and rough and clumsy.

Judith didn't look at him again. She just pulled away and turned in one, smooth motion. Got up, and moved out towards the treeline, crowding against the cliffside.

Just one moment, she stopped. Listened to the ocean waves, and the wind in the coastal trees. He was back there, still. It wasn't over yet. If she turned, she'd see him.

But she heard his voice, then—soft and weak:

"Don't look back, Judy," he said, "_Don't look back_."

* * *

Daryl watched Judith go. And _he_ was the one who looked back. Twelve years back—when she'd just turned five years old.

That was the first summer they were alone together.

The night was warm, and the crickets and frogs were singing in the thick woods. In the shelter of their tent, everything seemed quiet.

And Daryl was reading to her:

"_Once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by everyone who looked at her_..."

He kept going. Moved through the story, slowly. Took his time. And he turned the page, at last, and pointed to the first line. She leaned over and looked at it, carefully.

"Now what's that word, Jude? Sound it out…"

"Grand… _grandmother_…"

"That's right, kid. Good. _Good_."

And he read the sentence—slow, so she'd be able to follow along as much as she could:

"_Oh! but, grandmother, what a terrible, big mouth you have!_"

He paused. She waited for him to continue. And he darted in fast with one hand, and tickled her stomach:

"_All the better to eat you with!_"

She giggled. A sweet, airy laugh that sounded like the birds that would come in the morning.

He could make her do that. _He_ could make that happen. Sometimes, it was hard for him to believe.

But he put it aside, and kept reading. Looked over her shoulder at the book. At her dark, wavy hair in the light of the flashlight. Her curved lashes. Her tired eyelids, drooping a bit as she looked down at the page.

He finished the story. Told her about the huntsman, who saved Little Red Riding Hood. About what she learned from it all—_never_ to go off by yourself. _Always_ to stay close. Because there were monsters in the woods, and they might eat you if you wandered out alone.

And now, long years later, Daryl sat under a tree at the edge of the ocean. And he watched Judy moving away from him. Up the ridge and into the forest. He felt cold, and he knew it was almost over.

But he wanted to watch her until she was gone.

Moments later, she disappeared into the treeline, while the ocean rolled on and on forever at his back.

* * *

Judith moved off through the forest. Avoided the old, worn trail—in case those men were still around. Cut her way off into the thicker trees.

She felt the air moving gently on her face. Listened to the sound of the wind. Smelled the salt air.

Even in the trees, she felt exposed, somehow.

And she paused. Something was trickling down the side of her chin. Swiped a hand across her face—her lips. Blood.

Daryl's blood.

She barely had a moment to register it, before the gunshot rang out. The sound echoed from behind her—through the trees from the cliffside at her back.

Her muscles tightened, and she yanked her hand away.

And she stood there. Out in the forest, alone.


	10. Ever After

_Finally, I'm able to get the last chapter of this story to you. It's been a harrowing time. I have had two surgical procedures in the last month, and have been preparing to move a thousand miles away, which happens about two weeks from now. Things have been tough._

_I want to thank some people who have been invaluable as I've written this: Therm and ResidentGoth foremost among them. There are so many others... GoneRandom, Designation, Surplus Imagination... so many talented writers who have been generous enough to listen to my ideas and talk about them with me. Thank you._

_And thank you all for reading. I will be preparing a long fic for the summer, once I'm settled into my new life. And now to see how Judith fares in her new life. Enjoy._

* * *

_Ever After:_

Judith hunched low over her tinder, and struck the flintstone against the steel.

The forest was dark all around her campsite. Nighttime fell so damned _fast_—like a curtain.

Without her even realizing it, some twelve hours had slipped by since Daryl died.

And her steel set off a little spark—but the damned fire just wouldn't _light_. So she tried again. And again. It wasn't _working_. Judy let out a breath. Struck at it as hard as she could—angry. Clumsy. Her hand slipped, and the steel landed on the ground.

She jumped up. Felt the tears stinging in her eyes. Spun around, clutching the flintstone tight in her hand. Made to throw it into the bushes. Stopped herself at the last moment.

She kicked the dirt, and dropped back down to the ground.

"_Damn it_."

The coastal forest was cold at night. The fog worked into everything—so that the world around her was a blank, dark canvas. It all seemed different than it had in the morning—when Daryl was still with her.

But there was nothing to be done but to keep on going. Keep on trying to light that fire. So she leaned in close over her little pile of tinder, again—straining to see what she was doing in the pitch black. Made another try at it.

The sparks flew, and the thing began to smolder. She leaned in and blew on it—too much.

The fire died. She'd killed it. There was nothing left but a thin ribbon of smoke, winding its way into the sky.

Judy sighed.

"_Shit_…"

She kept murmuring to herself as she tried again. Swearing under her breath. And the spark just wouldn't _go_. She got nothing.

It was too goddamned _damp_ out. The stuff wasn't going to flare up without a fight.

And she knew that Daryl kept a little bag of wood shavings and dried bark in his rucksack—the one she'd thrown halfway over the cliffside. So she didn't have any of what was _in_ there. She forgot to go and get the thing, when she left.

She just left.

And she'd forgotten most of their _other_ things on that goddamned beach. The tent. Their bedrolls. All she had was her own bag, their guns, and his crossbow.

Judith hadn't been thinking of anything but getting away, then. Just as far as she could get—didn't give a solitary _shit_ where she ended up.

Only that it was east. Away from the coast.

So she'd worked a path down the overgrown highway—almost indistinguishable from the waterlogged fenlands that grew around it. And Judy didn't pay attention to _any_ of it. Just forced her way through the marsh grass and tangled briars.

She must've put twenty miles behind her before it got dark—so dark she just couldn't see where she was _going_, anymore. She'd had no choice but to stop for the night.

It was around then—when she stopped walking—that she started to become aware of a strange, strangling sensation in her throat. As she tried to light her fire, that tightness swelled—throttled her, like a hand grabbing at her neck and squeezing.

And now, with the fire dead in front of her, that feeling got so bad she doubled over—gagging against it. But her throat wouldn't clear.

She breathed hard, then. Clenched her fists, and counted to ten. Tried one more time with the flintsone. _This_ time, the tinder lit. Started to smolder, softly. The smoke blew up into her face. She gently fanned the flames, a moment, until they started to swell.

When the fire came to life, she leaned back. Muttered to herself.

"_Fuck_."

And Judith curled into her knees, then. Buried her face against them, looking down at her shoes. The firelight caught the chain of her mama's necklace—hanging on her belt loop. Made it glow.

And she sat there. Didn't know what to _do_ with herself, now. Now that she wasn't headed down the highway. Now that she wasn't struggling with the fire. Now that she out here, in the dark, alone.

She could hardly comprehend what happened. In her mind, she felt like Daryl _had_ to be close by. Like she'd hear his footfalls in the trees if she listened for them.

So she closed her eyes, a moment, and tried to hear the grumbling tenor of his breath. The sound of his boots shifting on the leaves. Listened and listened and tried to conjure it up the way she could hear it in her mind.

But there was nothing. No one. Silence.

So she burrowed closer into herself, and listened to the wind pull at the pine branches. She didn't sleep. Just sat there until the sun started to rise.

* * *

Thirteen years passed, and Judith was thirty years old. She'd been on her own as long as she'd ever been with Daryl.

One September afternoon, she perched up on a high branch of a maple tree—circled by a wreath of autumn leaves that filtered the sun. Everything was rich, dark greens, tinged with oranges and reds and bright yellows.

She had an old, college-ruled notebook with her, way up on that branch. Spent a long time flipping through the pages. They were older than _she_ was—and a bit yellowed around the edges—but they still got the job done. Were fine for writing. So for the last couple weeks, she'd filled the whole book with stories.

And now, it was ready.

She paused on one page—skimmed a passage, near the beginning:

_That little boy gave me four bullets. And I always thought—well—I thought that it meant I had four more for that little .22 than I'd have had otherwise. Even back then, I thought that might change things. That it'd be important, later. And it was. It was._

And Judy closed the book, a moment. Wasn't in any kind of hurry. Listened to the wind in the leaves, a bit, and then turned to where she had her bag—dangling by the straps off a nearby branch, with her crossbow at its side. She pulled out a fresh apple from one of the outside pockets, and took a bite.

As she chewed on it, she made to keep reading—but stopped short. Sensed a movement from the corner of her eye. A little shape on a nearby branch. She turned to it, and smiled.

"Hey—what're _you_ lookin' at?"

A squirrel. It tilted its head. Stared at the apple in her hand.

"Oh, _I_ see how it is."

She dropped the notebook down on her knee, and pulled the smallest knife from her belt. Cut a wedge from the apple. Held it out.

"Fine, here."

But the thing wouldn't come to take it. Shied back from her a moment, nervously. Watched her with those beady little sloe eyes.

"C'mon," she said, "Crossbow's way over there, see? I ain't gonna eat you. We're in an, uh… _armistice_, ok?"

It paused again—just a moment. Then it darted forward, and seized the wedge. Clutched it tight in its little hands and dove right on in. And Judith smiled. Watched it nibbling away as fast as it could—like it had never had anything to eat before its whole life.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?"

And she turned back to the pages. Moved further along through the book, while she listened to the squirrel chewing away:

_Daryl always tried to make sure I knew about my family. He seemed to think that was important. And so he told me stories about them—everything he could remember. But I think there was more _to_ it than that. I think he did a lot of it for himself, really. He wanted me to know about them so I'd be a bit like them. So I'd remind _him_ of the others. The ones who were long, long gone._

_And so when I broke my ankle, Daryl gave me knitting needles. A book of instructions. Yarn. He thought he was just trying to keep me busy. But he chose those things for a reason—I know it._

A heavy breeze rushed through the leaves, and spilled over her face like water. Pulled at the pages in her hands, and at the grass at the foot of the maple.

And Judy didn't pay much attention to them, but there were some human bones on the ground, down there—below the tree. A few ribs, connected to part of a spinal column. Bleached by the sun and tangled over with weeds.

* * *

Judith kept reading on that tree branch much of the afternoon. Munched at the apple, slowly. Worked on the notebook—adding things in the margins, here and there. Memories she'd forgotten to include.

And then there were noises, down the road. Horse's hooves, and quiet voices.

People. It'd been at least a month since she'd run into anyone. She lived out in the deep woods, a lot of the time—until she needed something. But she'd been getting closer and closer to the places people lived, the last few days—was on the side of an old roadside, now.

They came into view. Two older women—in their sixties, at least. One riding a horse, the other leading it by the reigns. Keeping an eye out for debris on the road, as they pushed through the dead stalks of summer grass.

"How's Fiver?" that woman on the road said. Patted the horse's neck, and looked up to the rider.

That rider had long hair—white, and shot through with grey. Tied up neatly at her back. And looking at her closer, as they passed by, Judy realized she was even older than the woman on the road. In her seventies—maybe even her eighties.

Really, it was a miracle she'd lived so long. Out on the road like that, with just another woman to look after her…

And the elderly rider stroked the horse's mane, and smiled.

"He's not as tired as _me_."

And Judy stayed still. Sat and waited for them to pass by. Looked down into the branches below her. At the gnarled bark. She noticed an abandoned bird's nest, then—lined with some strands of human hair. A scrap of bloodstained flannel.

The women never noticed her, watching them from above like a bird. And when they were gone, she kept reading through her work:

_Sometimes I wonder about what Daryl was thinking when he was out on the seashore—standing there in the surf, looking out at the waves. Maybe back to when he was kid—what it was like for him, then. It's always been hard for me to picture that world, and that life. Before the walkers. But I'll tell you everything he told me about what it was like—and then I'll leave it for you to figure out._

And when Judith was finished, she meant to wrap the notebook up in plastic and nestle it into a hollow. Or some old storefront. Somewhere close to where people went—just like she did with all the other countless notebooks she'd filled over the years.

Someone would find it, someday, and read it.

She was about to pop the thing back into her bag, when she heard a cry from down the road. One of those women—shouting.

Judy immediately scanned the distance. Looked for the mass of walkers she was instantly certain she would see.

But there wasn't anything. No mass of bodies, headed along the road. Herds were like hurricanes, or forest fires, or earthquakes. They could happen—but no one saw them much. Judith hadn't seen one in over ten years.

But every time she heard commotion, it was the first thing her mind jumped to.

And in any case, Judy knew she wasn't in much danger, up hidden on her treebranch—safe.

But those _women_. Whatever was happening, it was happening to them.

So she left what remained of that apple in the crook of the tree branch. Nodded to the squirrel—running around up in the branches above her head.

"Lucky day, little guy. All yours."

And she climbed down through the branches. Leapt onto the grass, and made her way to check out what was going on.

* * *

Judith moved briskly down the road—though it was so choked with grass, you could hardly tell it had ever been a _road_. Only a narrow path down the middle was worn down from some pretty frequent foot travel.

Judith drew the crossbow, silently—ready for any sign of trouble.

She didn't have to wait long.

The first thing she saw was the older woman on that horse—and the horse was skittish. Out of control. It was shying back on its hooves. Seemed close to throwing her.

Judith rushed forward, then. Made to grab the reigns. But stopped short. Saw something else.

The _other_ woman—the one who was a bit younger. She was pinned in the muddy grass at the side of the road. And there was an old walker—just half a body. Must have gotten her by the legs. Hiding in the grass like it was, she wouldn't have seen it until it went for her.

And now it had her flat on her back. Sent the horse into a panic. And that woman cried out—kicking at the body as it pulled its way up over her.

Judy took careful aim, and sent a bolt through the walker's skull. It was close range. Easy enough to do. And after that, she dropped the crossbow. Made to calm the horse. Got it by the reigns.

"_Shhh_," she murmured, "C'mon… c'mon boy…"

The rider stroked its mane, then, and it started to settle. But she saw something. Her hand froze in place, and she shouted her friend's name:

"_Nina!_"

Judy spun around. That other woman—Nina—was still stuck in the mud. Her pack was weighing her down, and with the dead walker's body sprawled over her, she couldn't get herself upright. And it was then that Judith realized there was _another_ body in the grass. A fresh one—someone _else_ that walker had taken down. A lone traveler, caught off his guard.

And his body was starting to move.

So Judy dropped the reigns, and went straight for the thing. He started to pull himself upright, and she planted a foot firmly on his chest. Pushed him down again.

And she climbed up over the thing—cold and blood-soaked and snarling. Got her knee firmly on its throat. And it struggled against her. Reached up and pulled at her hair. Part of it came loose from her braids, and spilled down over her shoulders.

And Judith chuckled at the walker, then. They were _feisty_ when they were fresh—she'd almost forgotten. So she shook her head at him. Clucked her tongue.

"_Woah_. Simmer down there, buddy."

She rooted around, twisted to get at her knife. But his arms were in her way. It was easier to go for his belt, than hers. So she ended up grabbing at it—feeling around for what he had on there. And she got the hilt of his machete. Drew it. Forced the walker's head down with one hand. Aimed for the neck with the other, and sent the blade on home.

She hacked at it a couple times, until the head was off. Let out a low grunt, then stabbed the severed head through the eye.

And that was that.

Judith got up. Yanked the blade out, and shook the blood off. Poked at the body with her foot, a moment.

The woman on the ground rolled the body off herself, and propped herself up on her hands. Judy could hear the older woman coming up from behind—holding the horse by the reigns.

And Judith stuck the machete in the bark of a fallen tree. Turned away, and started putting her hair back up in its braids.

A voice broke the silence from behind her.

"Thank you."

It was the woman on the ground—Nina. And Judith didn't answer right away. Took a second to look her over.

Then she nodded, once.

"You ok?"

"Yeah."

And Judy could see that Nina was staring at her. And thought of what she must _look_ like to these women. Her holstered python—totally useless, now that the bullets were gone. Her clothes—patched and sewn and altered over the years—so much so she'd really made most of them herself. Her mama's necklace—which she'd taken to wearing around her neck, these days.

Her many, many scars.

But she shook it all off. To be honest, she didn't really _care_ what they made of her. So she leaned over, and took Nina by the hand. Pulled her up from the ground, and patted her on the arm.

"Stay safe."

And then Judith smiled—a tight, close-lipped sort of thing. Without another word, she turned on her heels. Picked up her bag, and her crossbow. Slung them both over her shoulder, and wandered off into the trees.

* * *

That night, Judith sat at her fireside, alone, reading a book of poetry. She'd just made it to Tennyson's _Ulysses_:

_I cannot rest from travel: I will drink__  
__Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed__  
__Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those__  
__That loved me, and alone._

The wind in the trees sounded like the ocean waves. And so she thought of Daryl, then. Daryl—left lying out on the bluffs overhanging the shore. At rest on the outermost edge of this wide continent.

If she went back there—if she ever wanted to do such a thing—she'd find nothing left of him, by now. The animals would have come for his flesh. Parts of him must have been carried off by the sea birds. Off over the water. Out far. Far away.

And that was right. He'd want that. It was like the sky burials she'd read about in old textbooks. Like Ulysses on his final journey.

And she could almost hear his voice—way back when she was ten years old. Calling her to the bike, so they could ride away:

_Yo, Judy—we're burnin' daylight!_

That could've been a motto, for her and Daryl. He'd taught her to travel—always to keep moving. So it was how she'd always, always lived. And by now, she'd been _everywhere_. Up and down both coasts. She'd skirted the deserts. Stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon, once, and watched the sun rise. And lately, she'd found herself back in the close hills nestling around the Appalachian mountains.

And the nighttime… it felt different now—looking back to that first night without Daryl. The dark seemed so _hollow_, then. Not now. Not with the firelight warm on her face. On the locket hanging from her neck, and the scarf she'd wrapped up in, to ward away the autumn's nighttime chill.

Things were ok. She had everything she needed. She had her books. She had the world. She had herself.

And Judith would make notes around the margins of the book she was reading. Might fold some sheets of paper into the leaves, telling whoever might find the thing about what it all meant to her.

How it reminded her of Daryl.

She moved further down the page, then. Found another passage that jumped out. Underlined it in pencil, as she read:

_I am a part of all that I have met;  
__Yet all Experience is an arch wherethrough  
__Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades  
__For ever and for ever when I move._

Judith's fire crackled against the night air. An owl cried out in the dark.

She turned the page, and read on.


End file.
